

LIBRARY OF CONGRESS. 


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UNITED STATES OF AMERICA. 


























































































































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PANSY STORIES 


BY 

VIRGE REESE PHELPS 

o 

(VICTOR MEREDITH BELL) 



“ Let us lie low in the Lord’s power and learn that truth alone makes rich 
and great.” — Emerson. 


BOSTON 



A. I. BRADLEY & CO. 


\ % 






COPYRIGHT 1894. 

A. |. BRADLEY L CO. 


DEDICATED 


TO MY LOVED AND HONORED 


MOTHER 



CONTENTS 


CHAP. PAGE. 

I. Saint Giles 7 

II. Grandma Gilbert 92 

III. Mosses, Old and Dry Ill 

IV. Aunt Jo’s Story 122 

V. A Daughter of the Manse 132 

YI. Nell’s Easter 149 

YII. Dr. John 160 

VIII. Ristitootion 190 

































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PANSY STORIES 


SAINT GILES. 


“ The old house stands deserted, gray, 

With sharpened gables high in air; 

And deep-set lattices, all gay 
With massive arch and frame- work rare ; 
And over all is a silence laid 
That feeling, one grows sore afraid.” 


There is a house in Sussex, that stands in 
from the road, whose facade is brown, and 
stained, and old, as is the face of a seaman; 
and whose windows, looking out over the 
.waters, have an eerie light, as though some- 
where on their glassy surface there were painted, 
in ghostly lights the dismal scenes of shipwreck 


8 


PANSY STORIES. 


and other marine disasters they had witnessed, 
looking out forever upon the deep waters. The 
morning sunlight lit them up with red and gold 
brilliancy, the evening shadows left them cold, 
and dull, and grim. Down the path from the 
door to the gate, the grass grew thick, not 
green and dewy, but stunted, and in a brown 
tangle. 

The path from the road to the side-door was 
somewhat better, bearing the impress of occa- 
sional use ; but even here the grass was dead 
along the way, and the chrysanthemums were 
bleared, and thin, and ghostly. And up and 
down this path a woman moved, slowly and 
painfully, for her hands were guiding in close 
clasp a pair of crutches, which she used with 
evident pain. 

It was in the late fall, and frailer blooms had 
vanished at the first approach of winter, leaving 
here and there the gleaming chrysanthemums — 
fit sentinels to guard the entrance to Prudence 


SAINT GILES. 


9 


Vamp’s rooms. “ Chambers,” she sometimes 
called them, using the old English expression 
with a certain lofty toss of her proud head, 
as though intolerant of her present American 
surroundings. 

“Yes; I’ll let the path o’ergrow with moss; 
let the flowers bloom and die, never more to 
bloom again, before I’ll give my consent. A 
Vamp teach Jacob Grant’s children ! A Vamp ! 
— the thought makes my heart sick ; ” and she 
glanced hurriedly at the old rambling house, so 
unmistakably falling into ruin. 

Prudence Vamp was a lady, an English lady, 
accustomed from her birth to luxury; soft 
places had been made for her, helpful hands 
extended in every emergency. The accident 
that caused her pain, and left her helpless in a 
sense, only brought to light friend after friend, 
who bravely sought to help her. But Prudence 
Vamp was proud. The pride of the Vamps 
came to her as a possession, and she cherished it 


10 


PANSY STORIES. 


above all things. The old house needed re- 
pair; the grounds were neglected; bank ac- 
counts were low ; one luxury after another had 
given way to the intrusion of absolute need, 
and yet, the idea of a Vamp going out in the 
family of Jacob Grant to teach, brought the 
blood in scarlet shame to Miss Vamp’s face, and 
made her fairly ill. And this was a real thing, 
a painful, difficult thing, for the proud English- 
woman to face. Refinement of feeling does not 
always go hand in hand with sound common- 
sense; and unreasonableness too often is the 
handmaid of luxury. It is a nice point in the 
ethics of fortitude, to know how to submit to 
life’s requirements with grace, for submit we 
must in the end. 

Now, Jacob Grant was a well-to-do farmer, 
living in comfort just six miles from Grayslope, 
a good, substantial man, who had worked with 
brain and hand for all he possessed, and who 
owned it with more than the royalty of an 


SAINT GILES. 


11 


English possessor — with the sturdy indepen- 
dence of a free-born American citizen. True, 
his walls were nowhere adorned with aristo- 
cratic graces — such as were the pride of Pru- 
dence Vamp’s heart. No right had he to a 
family crest done in oil so many years ago, that, 
like the paintings of the old masters, it, too, was 
turning a russet brown, as it hung in Miss 
Vamp’s “Chambers” at Grayslope. But were 
not the insignia of a royal race of honest ances- 
tors stamped upon the physical development of 
himself and all he called by his name? Were 
these as naught when compared with the high- 
blood claims of Miss Prudence Vamp and her 
niece, Claire? 

But the garden gate swings to with a jar, 
and a young girl of pronounced beauty and 
aristocratic mien, ends all further comment. 

“I’ve concluded, that the best thing to be 
done is to look upon Mr. Grant’s letter as a 
Providence, and, auntie mine, I’m going to 


12 


PANSY STORIES . 


teach in the Grant family, beginning next 
Monday, and this is Tuesday; so you see I’ll 
have no time to idle away, if I do all I would 
for you, before leaving, which will be but from 

Monday until Friday of each week Auntie 

Prue, what is the matter? Don’t look so 
strange ! tell me, are you ill ? ” and the lov- 
ing, girlish arms wound themselves about the 
frail form of the invalid, almost lifting her 
within the open door. Then the evening damps 
made chill the evening air, and the owls hooted 
from the dark recesses of the wood, and the 
darker folds of night put out the dull red glow 
of the western sky, and one by one the stars 
came out and reflected sparkling light upon the 
windows in the tall gables, and set the little 
lake aflame with numerous far-off brilliance, 
and the doors were closed for the night. 

There must have been much argument, much 
magnetic persuasion, upon Claire’s part to win 
the smile of concession from the proud lips of 


SAINT GILES. 


13 


Miss Vamp, upon such an adventure as teaching 
in Jacob Grant’s family must be looked upon, 
and never had she known any good as the result 
of the workings of adventurers. All this and 
more was said to Claire ; but she, nothing dread- 
ing half so much as the dismal cloud of poverty, 
which, blown by the wind of increasing demands, 
was so surely sweeping in most apprehensive 
piles far up over the gables of the old house — 
the aristocratic “ Chambers ” of Auntie Prue’s 
home, and her own, looked upon teaching as 
a Providence ; and so it was. Who of all her 
friends at school had been so favored ! Little 
Mamie Griffith, the minister’s daughter, had to 
leave home for a year at a time, and she was to 
be gone not quite a week. Saturday and Sun- 
day home. Then, again, Aunt Prue educated 
her for a teacher, and now, when a fine offer is 
presented, because it is not just all she could 
wish, demands a refusal. What was Aunt Prue 
thinking of — Aristocrats ? What had that to do 


14 


PANSY STORIES. 


in a country where caste is nothing ; where 
the blacksmith’s son may be in highest office, 
offering his hand to the daughter of a senator ? 
But Aunt Prue’s niece must not teach Jacob 
Grant’s children. Well, well, it was all stuff 
and nonsense, and Aunt Prue must trust more 
to the Providence that was surely guiding them. 
Something must be done to swell the depleted 
account, else the home would have to be sold. 
Claire’s brain was busy with arguments. Surely 
Aunt Prue knew all these painful things even 
better than she ; then why not be sensible, and 
accept this opening. 

She must leave it all in Claire’s hands, and be 
thankful. 

She must love, she must trust Claire, and all 
would be right. 

Consequently, on Monday morning, there stood 
before the gateway opening out from the path 
already mentioned — the path guarded by the 
sentinel flowers — a horse and carriage bearing 


SAINT GILES. 


15 


the impress of modern manufacture, for the 
harness of the one, and style of the other, told 
of ample means as well as recent purchase. 
Jacob Grant paced the walk. Claire had 
politely invited him inside ; but well this man 
knew the pride of the Yamps, nor would he 
intrude. He liked Claire, she had no foolish- 
ness. Poor, well, yes, he knew they were poor, 
and out of his great-heartedness he had formed 
this plan of help; but Prudence Yamp would 
not view him as an equal. 

As they drive off in the crisp morning air, let 
us retrospect, my gentle reader, you and I. 

“ Who was Claire ? ” She was the sunlight 
over against mildew; what crimson bars of 
morning are in contrast with moonless, starless 
night ; she was as truth to falsehood — as life to 
death ! 

“ Where came she from ? ” Out of the sea, 
one might almost say, for the high winds of an 
ocean storm had landed her father with his 


It) 


PANSY STORIES. 


young babe in his arms on an American shore, 
the same storm bearing the form of the mother 
out from human succor to the lonely sea. 

And St. Giles, holding his babe in almost 
helpless arms, was rescued and cared for by the 
strong sailors along an American shore. 

And so, after time had poured her ointment 
upon the bruised heart, and manliness had once 
more sway over his being, St. Giles determined 
to live in Sussex, buying the old home described 
in the former pages. 

Grayslope was a handsome place in those 
days, although old even then. Finding servants 
good enough in their way, but not just what his 
little Claire needed, St. Giles had written for 
Aunt Prue, he himself finding it necessary to 
go abroad. 

It was a great trial to part from little Claire, 
then but eight years old. Important business 
required his presence in London, he could not 
take Claire, and yet how his heart clung to her. 


SAINT GILES. 


17 


Dr. Rennolds, the minister at the old gray- 
church, had promised to befriend Miss Prudence, 
and look after Claire. And so it was that St. 
Giles battled with his emotions, and at length 
took from his neck the fond, clinging arms of 
Claire, leaving his heart in the keeping of this 
only child. 

And then he had left America for English 
shores, leaving Aunt Prue, Claire, Susan, her 
first and only nurse, together with a few serv- 
ants, at Grayslope. “ He would not be absent 
long,” he said, and meant every word ; for well 
he loved his little Claire, growing so like the 
other Claire whom the sea had claimed. 

And time wore on, and months lengthened 
into long dreary years, and still St. Giles did 
not return. At first his letters had been prompt 
and sure; but there came a time when they 
ceased. Everything was done to uncover the 
mystery; but there it remained'. An old sea- 
man at last wrote of having seen a St. Giles 
2 t 


18 


PANSY STORIES. 


Vamp on a steamer bound for America, but that 
the ship went down before reaching port, and 
Miss Prudence gave up all hope. But Claire 
said she knew her father would come : he was 
living still ; somewhere on the round earth his 
step was heard ; she felt the magnetic touch 
of his presence : and the instinctive certainty 
of his being alive was a fact to her conscious- 
ness. 

But old Nancy, the cook, declared “ she saw 
Marse Giles in de frun’ chamber a-wringin’ out 
de water from he close, an’ he hayr all ober he 
face kind o’ wet-like, an’ a-moanin’ an’ a-moanin’, 
an’ jes’ when she mose up to him,” (Susan said 
“ she knew Nancy never went near Mr. Giles, 
’feared as Nancy is,”) “ he wanished jes’ like a 
cloud, only some quicker.” 

Amid the conflicting accounts, one fact main- 
tained preeminence: St. Giles Vamp had not 
returned, nor could any trace of him be found. 

And so the years passed by and the family 


SAINT GILES. 


19 


remained the same as when the owner of Gray- 
slope had set sail for English shores, leaving 
Miss Prudence Vamp sole controller, Susan 
Palmer nurse for little Claire, and Nancy and 
Sam (who were slaves of Col. Chamberlain’s 
before the war) as gardener and cook. 

Realizing the fact of her own helplessness, 
Miss Prudence had had the foresight to have 
Claire well educated ; and to this end she had 
stinted in household affairs, leaving the meager 
margin for Claire’s expenses, knowing Claire 
would bravely face the duties of teaching. But 
Prudence Vamp had higher anticipations than 
those embraced in teaching Jacob Grant’s chil- 
dren — Claire would teach in a college ! But 
this Claire made no effort to do. She wanted a 
position near home, where she “ could overlook 
Grayslope interests and take care of Aunt 
Prue.” And this she told Jacob Grant just two 
weeks before the opening of our story, receiving 
from him the generous offer of five hundred 


20 


PANSY STOBIES. 


dollars per school year, with board ; and this for 
teaching two bright children, a boy and a girl, 
too young to attend school in Kenith, the vil- 
lage close by. 

It was a rare good chance — quite a Provi- 
dence, indeed, as Claire proved. Carlton and 
Hattie Grant were obedient and kind, and the 
weeks passed in pleasurable and profitable in- 
dustry with teacher and pupils. 

Miss Prudence ceased from airing her opin- 
ions relating to blood, while Claire’s young face 
proved the ability of combining common-sense 
with aristocratic ancestry. 

“ In the spring we .must have roses planted in 
the garden ; our old ones are dying out,” Claire 
said one morning as they returned from church. 
“ Dr. Rennolds had such lovely ones on the 
desk. Did you notice them, Aunt Prue ? Then 
the walks are to be cleaned and things made 
bright once more. Grayslope must look more 
like its English namesake, must it not, auntie 


SAINT GILES. 


21 


mine ? ” Claire was happy, and Miss Prudence 
entered into all her plans with the abandonment 
of loving trust, and Grayslope echoed to the 
laughter of youth once more, for Claire brought 
one or both of the Grant children home with 
her to remain over Sunday quite often, and 
Carlton Grant loved nothing so well when there 
as to sit by Aunt Prue, listening to the stories 
of the land beyond the sea, the great mother- 
land of the English people, while Hattie would 
climb in Nancy’s lap arid insist upon hearing, 
just one more time, of the haunted room where 
the man came and wrung out his hair and wet 
clothes, and Nancy would say : “ Bress de chile ! 
Ole Nancy don’ tole all she know, an’ da is no 
mo’ to tell, ’ceptin’ dat dere’s not a word ob 
trufe in de story, so Miss Claire don’ say, ’case 
she believes Marse Giles is libin’ somewhar’ on 
de yarth, an’ he no spirit at all.” 

Then the whole story would be gone over by 
Hattie to her mother upon her return, and Claire 


22 


PANSY STORIES. 


would be treated with more than usual motherly 
tenderness by Mrs. Grant, because of her lonely 
girlhood and the great shadowy mystery that 
rested upon her father’s fate. 

Thus the winter passed, and the sweet spring 
drew nigh apace, veiling her exquisite beauty 
with misty coverings of bloom, and showering 
with crystal droppings from floating clouds, a 
host of pale-pink petals from apple and peach 
boughs, too heavy with embryo fruit to hold 
their generous freight ; and Claire laughed when 
she found Aunt Prue, with Carlton Grant, walk- 
ing beneath the old trees at Grayslope, for she 
thought how mellow that haughty spirit was be- 
coming in the presence of the boy, and the old 
words, “A little child shall lead them,” echoed 
many times in the young girl’s mind as the days 
of the spring passed by. 

And “ Aunt Prue ” told the boy of famous 
men — of the old masters in art — declaring she 
would never be content until Carle Grant went 


SAINT GILES. 


23 


abroad ; “For don’t you see the artist’s spirit is 
in the boy ? ” she would exclaim to Claire many 
times, when the children had returned to their 
home. Other eyes than those of Miss Vamp 
had seen this peculiarity of Carle Grant’s. He 
was singularly unlike the most of his little 
friends, yet retaining every trait of most pro- 
nounced boyhood. 

The fondness for Claire brought much sweet- 
ness to both. 

“ Sweetheart Carle,” she named him, and the 
fair-haired boy thought that never in all his 
after life would he be able to find another 
woman so near an angel as was Claire. 

So content the young girl grew in her new 
duties, that, but for the mystery that hung about 
her father’s death, she would have been happy. 
No life was shadowed by her unrest; for years she 
had known best to keep her disquiet within her 
own breast. “ God would lead her into full 
light,” she thought, and conversation upon the 


24 


PANSY STORIES. 


subject with Aunt Prue only led to misunder- 
standings, and materially affected Miss Vamp’s 
health ; for she had given her brother up, and 
none but Claire believed in the existence of St. 
Giles Vamp. 

It would have been a great relief to Claire’s 
mind if she could have found response in her 
aunt. True, every effort had been made to find 
St. Giles, and, as Miss Vamp had said, any 
reasonable person would accept the evidence 
of facts, and not question longer. Dr. Rennolds 
alone knew the longings of Claire’s heart ; to 
him alone she went when overburdened with 
this sense of her father’s existence. “ I can’t 
talk to Aunt Prue,” she would say, “and I 
must talk to you,” she would tell him ; and the 
minister, yielding to her fancy, led her to talk 
freely. 

“ Never to have known one’s mother is sad 
enough, but to give both parents to the sea! 
Just think of it, Doctor. I do not believe it ; 


SAINT GILES. 


25 


sometime my father will come back to me.” It 
was almost too hard a thing to believe, looking 
in the girl’s earnest, beautiful face, and the 
good minister could not but trust somewhat in 
the girl’s faith. And so Claire believed and 
trusted. 

In Claire’s Sunday-school class there was a 
rather remarkable child, Dossie Angel, a golden- 
haired angel, with dimples and smiles for every 
one, and Dossie often found a nestful home in 
Claire’s arms after the school had closed in the 
afternoon. 

One Sunday, Claire noticed Dossie’s eyes 
were very red, and determined, so soon as school 
should have closed, to seek her, and find out the 
trouble. So, when every one had gone, Claire 
took Dossie in her arms, and questioned why 
her eyes were so red. 

“ They is not as wed as they’s been,” Dos- 
sie said ; “ I’s had a ’hippin.” 

“ Ah, Dossie ! ” 


26 


PANSY STORIES . 


“ Yes ; an’ I’s lievva goin’ to tell the trufe 
again.” 

“Come, tell me all about it!” Claire ex- 
claimed, seeing the child was in evident trouble. 
“ What has happened to my angel ? Tpll me 
about it.” 

But all that could be drawn from the child’s 
lips were the words, “I’ll nevva tell the trufe 
again ; ” and the golden head fell in a storm of 
passionate grief on Claire’s breast. 

Fearing Dossie’s mother might be uneasy 
about the child, Claire soothed the little one as 
best she could, and, leading her out from the 
church, soon found herself in the presence of 
Mr. Angel, who had come to look for Dossie. 

“Has she told you her trouble?” he in- 
quired. 

“Nothing, save the awful fact of her never 
telling the truth again ; ” and Claire smiled. 

“Well, it is awful, and I hope it will be a 
lesson to Clementine.” 


SAINT GILES. 


27 


“You must go wis me,” Dossie cried, as 
Claire turned to go home, and nothing would 
content Dossie, but having her mother tell all 
about “ how bad she had been.” 

Mrs. Angel laughed when told of the trouble, 
and said it was scarce a likely story for Sunday, 
and particularly difficult for her ; but if Miss 
Claire would come in she would relate the story 
of Dossie’s trial. 

“Tell ’bout the ’hippin’, too,” Dossie said. 
“ Oh, I has been sutch a drefful child ; but I’s 
nevva goin’ to tell the trufe again,” and Dossie 
broke down in a pitiful heap of tears. What- 
ever it was, Dossie’s trouble seemed painfully 
real. 

“You see, it happened in this way,” Mrs. 
Angel commenced. “For a long time I’ve 
wanted these walls colored ; I’ve been ashamed 
of the rough, white walls, so out of keeping 
with our surroundings ; so, happening upon one 
of those diamond-dye books, I found that, with 


28 


PANSY STORIES. 


very little cost, I could tint the walls all over 
the house, and produce a pleasing effect, with 
very little expense. Of course, I could not he 
fixed up as to looks, and Bertha, the cook, had 
to give up her work to help me. Mr. Angel 
would be gone all day, and I hoped by evening 
to introduce him to a new home. It was quite 
fascinating, and I thought, as we put on the 
wash in the hall — a pearl gray — how nice it 
would be to tint the parlor sky-blue. Bertha 
said she would help, so, about two in the after- 
noon, we commenced. 

“ I did not care to disarrange everything, it 
being Saturday ; but then I was fixed for the 
work, and it would all be done by four o’clock 
if we worked up fast. 

“ The hall had proved such a success, I felt very 
confident when I undertook the room. Imagine 
my dismay, when, instead of the sky-blue, I found 
I had an indigo-blue of a most melancholy 
shade. Bertha suggested that we wash it off, 


SAINT GILES. 


29 


and try again; but the more we washed the 
sadder the task grew. It was dreadful. I stood 
back in the room to think what had best be 
done, when a ring at the door positively alarmed 
me. What were we to do ! Every piece of 
furniture was in the hall, piled up as though for 
a defense, and the parlor walls a deplorable 
picture of some one’s lost art. Bertha said she 
could not go to the door as she was, and ran out 
in the yard, only to return in a second, exclaim- 
ing, 4 It’s the young minister, come to make his 
first call.’ Just then Dossie ran in, and, standing 
outside the entry door, I said, 4 Run, Dossie, and 
tell the gentleman mamma is out ; to please 
call again,’ and Dossie ran around to the door 
in breathless haste, exclaiming, 4 My mamma 
says she is out, and to please come again, Mr. 
Gentleman.’ 

44 What could I do, Miss Claire ? How could 
I forgive Dossie ? What would the minister 
think ! And so it all came about that Dossie 


30 


PANSY STORIES. 


got a whipping, and the result is she says she 
never will tell the truth again. Mr. Angel 
came home in the evening to a disconsolate 
household. He thinks I did very wrong, but 
what else could I have done ? ” 

44 I think the truth would have been appre- 
ciated by the minister,” Claire answered. “ It’s 
far better to face such things, as best you 
can, and a true excuse would not have of- 
fended.” 

But poor little D ossie only drew closer and 
closer to Claire as she declined the invitation 
to tea, and got up to go. 44 Let me take her 
home with me ? ” Claire asked, as she held the 
child in her arms, and Mr. Angel said, if Dossie 
wanted to go, he thought it might do her 
good. And so it was that Claire calmed the 
excited child in the quiet of old Grayslope, and 
Monday morning found Dossie once more will- 
ing to tell the truth always, and not a story, and 
Mrs. Angel only too glad to have learned a 


SAINT GILES. 


31 


lesson in simple honesty, even though as the 
result of the diamond dyes. 

It takes a brave spirit to face the little ills of 
life. 

A stranger visiting Kenith once asked, 4 4 Have 
you a town paper ? ” and met with the equivo- 
cal reply, 44 We have two sewing-societies.” 

At present it is our intention to visit the one 
connected with Dr. Rennolds’ church, and whose 
staunchest member is none other than Miss 
Prudence Yamp. It is Wednesday afternoon, 
and the ladies are not as punctual as they should 
be, knowing that much depended upon getting 
at work soon. Three o’clock, and still the little 
clock on the mantel in the sitting-room ticked 
out the minutes past three and no one had 
come. 

Miss Yamp looked over the old path leading 
out to the road anxiously. By and by through 
the tangled vines could be seen a number of 
ladies walking briskly along the road, for Gray- 


32 


PANSY STOEIES. 


slope was not within the town limits though not 
far from its busy center. 

The leading member of the Ladies’ Aid was 
Mrs. Delevan, a sort of importation, as she 
came from Dr. Pierson’s church, the finest 

church in city. Mrs. Grandon Woods, was 

another member of consideration, her husband 
being the controlling physician in Kenith. 
Then there were Mrs. Harriet Leech, Miss Isa- 
bella Hambleton, Mrs. Kirkpatrick, Mrs. Cami- 
nade, Mrs. Bathrick, Mrs. Vroone, Miss Sabetlia 
Wickins. 

Susan, the housekeeper at Grayslope, had been 
busy attending to Miss Prudence’s demands all 
day, for things must be in order when the 
society met at her house but once in six 
months ; and now as the trim serving-woman 
answered the ring at the door, a mental excla- 
mation haunted her weary brain in answer to 
Miss Vamp’s demand. “ Everything is clean 
in the house, as every bone in my body can 


SAINT GILES. 


33 


testify.” But Susan was too well-trained to 
give utterance, in Miss Vamp’s presence, to the 
numerous thoughts which haunted her practical 
brain, and she stood in respectful obedience 
beside the open door through which passed the 
seven ladies, as clean herself as a snowdrift. 
The sewing-circle of the Ladies’ Aid lost no 
time in going to work. Easter would soon be 
around, and these fancy pillows, etc., etc., were 
to be disposed of in time for the Easter offering, 
which usually consisted of a purse of money for 
the minister, good Dr. Rennolds. 

Mrs. Delevan thought it would be so nice to 
give the money to the poor. “ Dr. Pierson of the 
Dover church would have been grieved at such 
an offering,— they always gave money to the 
poor.” Mrs. Leech thought they could not go 
amiss in giving the purse to Dr. Rennolds. 

“We would be giving to the poor as well, 
for, dear me, did you notice how worn and thin 

his clothes were the other Sunday as he stood 
3 


34 


PANSY STORIES . 


talking with Emma Goodwill after service ? 
Dr. Rennolds is such a good man, he seems so 
interested in Emma, although she is a stranger.” 

“ I did not know she had returned,” remarked 
Miss Hambleton. 

“ Did not know she had come ! ” exclaimed 
Miss Sabetha Wickins. “Well, now, if that 
don’t beat the Jews ! Where have you been 
keeping yourself, Miss Isabella? Don’t know 
about Emma Goodwill! Well, well! Why, I 
thought every one knew of her. That’s the 
reason Miss Dickson ain’t here this afternoon.” 

Miss Yroone knew nothing of Miss Good- 
will. Mrs. Kirkpatrick smiled, she rarely said 
much, a habit she had learned from close associ- 
ation with the Hon. Judge Kirkpatrick. 

“ I’m sorry if any one has hurt Mrs. Dickson’s 
feelings,” Miss Vamp remarked. 

And all the ladies chimed in, “Why, we all 
are sorry enough for that.” 

Mrs. Grandon Woods had remained silent up 


SAINT GILES. 


35 


to this time ; she said she hoped the trouble 
had been ended, that Dr. Rennolds had said 
that he hoped no more would be said on the 
subject — that no one should mention it to 
him. 

Mrs. Dele van had been away in New York, 
and knew nothing of the affair. “ Surely, there 
would be no harm in telling her.” And Sa- 
betha Wickins put down her crazy square for 
the saner (?) work of imparting valuable infor- 
mation. 

“ You see Miss Dickson wanted a bonnet this 
year, and no one can suit her but me ; and she 
came in my store off and on, lookin’ here and 
there, as she is mighty particular, you know, 
’bout her things, and the price she pays ; rich 
folks is pretty hard on a cent most times, and 
I’m not the one to blame them, only, Miss Yamp, 
it is hard on a person as has to work as I do, to 
have so much of their time taken up. Well, as 
I was a saying, Miss Dickson, she says to me, 


36 


PANSY STORIES. 


some four weeks ago or more, ‘ Did you know 
Emma Goodwill has taken the care of the com- 
munion silver on herself ? ’ ‘ Hush ! ’ says I. 

‘Yes, and after my husband had been given 
the entire charge of it, he furnishing the wine. 
Emma says she had ’em before she went 
away, and that she is going to keep ’em now 
she has come home.’ I tell you Miss Dickson 
is mad. She won’t come to church, and we miss 
her. Then another thing Miss Dickson told me 
made me feel so sorry. You know Miss Good- 
will ain’t been long come back, and it is sor- 
rowful for her living in her house all alone ; she 
can’t help missin’ them as is dead. 

“ Well, Mrs. Rennolds, she sent for her to come 
to the manse and stay with them that bad spell 
of weather we had two weeks ago come next 
Friday, and while Miss Emma was a sittin’ in 
one room with the door on a jar, in comes Miss 
Dickson to see Miss Rennolds, and she says, 
pretty loud like, ‘ Ain’t Emma Goodwill 


SAINT GILES. 


37 


here ? If she is, yon better look out, she’s 
always sponging on somebody,’ and Miss 
Emma heard her.” 

“Ladies,” exclaimed Miss Vamp, “this is 
none of our business. Dr. Rennolds has re- 
quested that this matter be left quiet. As 
Christians, I hope we will obey him. I know 
very little of the affair, but I do know Miss 
Goodwill to be a poor lone woman, — quite an 
object for our tenderest sympathy, and not one 
to be lifted up as a mark for spite. I hope this 
is the last time we will indulge in anything so 
disgraceful as talking of our friends in an un- 
kind manner.” 

Mrs. Grandon Woods thought it the best 
plan. “ Miss Goodwill is such a sweet woman ! 
my husband, Dr. Woods, thinks her case a very 
sad one, and I think Mrs. Dickson very wrong.” 
“ I’ve only said what she told me,” remarked 
Sabetha Wickins. “ Has any one heard Miss 
Goodwill say anything about it ? ” inquired 


38 


PANSY STORIES. 


Miss Hambleton. “ I should suppose she might 
have a right to a hearing,” she continued. 
Yes, Dr. Rennolds had talked with her ; but he 
would not say anything on the subject, an- 
swered Miss Sabetha. “ His silence is my 
answer,” Miss Vamp remarked ; and then as it 
was growing too late for work, the ladies folded 
the indescribable efforts of crazy work made 
sane down into dainty baskets of curious 
fashion, and laughingly took their leave, assur- 
ing Miss Vamp that they had enjoyed the 
afternoon much more than they had dreamed of 
doing, and Sabetha Wickins, loitering behind the 
rest, kissed the proud Englishwoman, remark- 
ing, “ I declare, Miss Vamp, I’ll have to make 
you a new cap ; this one’s out of style ! ” As 
the door closed Prudence Vamp drew a long 
breath exclaiming, “ Charity ! charity ! how rare 
it is we find thee ! ” 

Yes: Miss Goodwill had heard Mrs. Dick- 
son’s remarks as she sat in the room opening 


SAIN T GILES. 


39 


into the outer room at the Manse. The remark 
was heartless, and it sank down deep into the 
wounded feelings of the lonely woman, — lonely 
in every sense of the word. Dearly did she 
love the old church, and from the first had she 

been devoted to its ministers. Changes had 

♦ 

come, and, one by one, the loved home-faces 
had vanished, leaving but a memory of what 
had been most precious. At these times she 
had fled to the church as her great comforter, 
and Christian ministers who had been placed 
over its interests had led the lonely woman out 
of the mists of the valley of desolation, to the 
high hills of resignation. She had been away 
from home. Finding the lonely rooms unbear- 
able after the death of the last member of her 
family, she had spent a year away; but the 
longing to look upon familiar scenes had been 
too great, and the wanderer had returned, re- 
turned to the lonely home, with a heart weary 
unto breaking; and her every movement was 


40 


PANSY STORIES . 


subjected to severest criticism. Nor were Miss 
Goodwill’s intentions wrong. As we said be- 
fore, she loved lier church, and work for it was 
an outlet for the affections of the lonely woman’s 
heart. She did not intend monopoly ; but her 
actions, fed by the longing, aching demands for 
expression of the desolated heart and empty life, 
bore the stamp of monopoly ; and others, with 
whom she was not a favorite, disliked her for 
being, as they said, “so officious.” Could we 
but look beneath and see the why of many 
actions, how different would be our verdict! 
Could we know the rushing tides of that rest- 
less sea of anguish whose flood-tides sweep over 
the soul, drowning nearer sounds in their roar, 
and blinding the vision to calmer scenes, would 
not a gentle Pity, with pleading face, stand be- 
fore the spirit of - Criticism, and silence to echo- 
less stillness the freezing words, freighted with 
the frost of death? 

How cruelly sharp that knife-like sentence, 


SAINT GILES. 


41 


containing the word that was worse than a 
physical stab : the one word “ sponging .” 

That evening Miss Goodwill returned to the 
dreary rooms, the lonely, desolate hearth, the 
echoing stillness ; and, as she sat in the shadows, 
brightened here and there by the flash of the 
street lamps, slowly and yet softly came the 
memory of the words a dear one had loved and 
valued : 

“ Show me the way to a higher plane, 

Where body shall be servant to the soul. 

I do not care what tides of woe or pain 
Across my life their angry waves may roll, 

If I hut reach the end I seek some day : 

Show me the way. 

“ Show me the way to that calm, perfect peace 

Which springs from inward consciousness of right; 
To where all conflict with the flesh shall cease, 

And self shall radiate with the spirit’s light. 
Though hard the journey and the strife, I pray: 

Show me the way.” 

Thus He giveth His beloved peace. Who 
shall question the reality of the “ministering 


42 


PANSY STORIES. 


spirits ” sent from the courts of joy to comfort 
the stricken children of earth? Who, in this 
century of rationalistic truth (?) shall banish 
the angel of Peace as a phantom of thought, 
and, with iconoclastic hands, hurl not only this 
reality, but the blessed influence of the match- 
less Word of God from the temples of our 
being. 

And the night closed in about this woman, 
but the soul held a joy its darkness could not 
cloud. 

It was a bright afternoon in April. The fruit 
trees were in full bloom, and the spring flowers 
in the gardens were awake from the winter’s 
trance. Little Hattie Grant had determined 
upon a tramp through the woods, and had told 
her teacher that morning, in resistless words, 
that she must accompany her. Now, just at 
this time, it was evident that something must 
be done to comfort Hattie, as a very red and 
swollen face bore evidence ; and Claire con- 


SAINT GILES. 


43 


eluded to close the school at twelye, and, after 
an early dinner, spend the afternoon in the 
woods. Willow Grove was a favorite with the 
children, and Hattie’s face shown with joy, 
regaining its wonted brightness at the prospect 
of an afternoon there. The way led down by 
the railroad, the track leading from Kenith 
over to the pier of the New York steamer, and 
Mrs. Grant never allowed the children to run 
at will along this path of danger. Wild flow- 
ers, filled with that ineffable freshness peculiar 
to spring blooms, starred the way. Now and 
then a wild violet was seen peeping out from a 
bed of transparent leaves the frosts had blasted. 
The willows were astir with life: long, low 
branches rough with tender new life ; tiny leaves 
just on the eve of birth ; and the little birds, 
unused to molestation, building in the thick 
silences of the great branches, fluttering here 
and there in parental anxiety. 

“ Now,” said Claire, as they had reached a 


44 


PANSY STORIES. 


resting-place, “ yon must tell me of the trouble 
at Mrs. Woods’ yesterday, and why Hattie has 
been in so much trouble to-day.” 

Sweetheart Carle held his head down and dug 
his heel in the ped of brown leaves at his feet. 
Hattie tossed her curls from her face, and, with 
tears in her big brown eyes, said, “ I told 
mamma.” 

“ Yes, but I want to know, too. Sweetheart 
will tell me, surely.” 

Then, turning his honest, beautiful face up to 
Claire, Carle related the following, while Hattie 
curled herself in Claire’s lap and nestled her 
restless head on her teacher’s breast : 

“Yesterday afternoon, you know, Hattie and 
I went to Henry Woods’ birthday party. Well, 
we had a big time, I tell you, and Hattie never 
did enjoy herself more. Everything was as nice 
as even mamma would have had it, and we left 
at five' o’clock so as to meet papa when he came 
in for the mail. Harry did everything nice : let 


SAINT GILES. 


45 


us play with his toys, and Hattie rode his new 
playhorse almost all the time we were there.” 

44 Why, Hattie, you were not selfish, I hope ! 
Did not the others want to ride ? ” 

“ Doesn’t know. I des I better go back an’ 
tell ’em I’s sorry I rode all the time.” 

44 Well, no; but Hattie ‘must remember others 
next time. Well, Sweetheart, what else?” 

44 What hurt Hattie’s feelings was this : just 
as we were leaving, Jim came out and took my 
arm, exclaiming, 4 1 say, Carle, I’m going to 
have a birthday soon, and I want you to come, 
can’t you ? ’ Just then Hattie cried out, 4 Yes, 
we will come ! ’ and Jim turned round and shuck 
his fist in her face, and said, 4 No, you won’t 
come, neither. I’m not going to have any girls ; 
so there, miss ! ’ and his face got red, and he 
looked horrid mad, and I said, 4 Come on, 
Hattie; Jim’s a bad boy, and I would not go to 
a party if he gave fifty.’ ” 

44 An’ he won’t nessa go see Jim Woods 


46 


PANSY STORIES. 


again, so he told mamma ; and mamma said we 
both were naughty children, an’ she is so sorry 
she can’t trust us any more away from her. 
Carle most fighted Jim, ’cause he talked so 
assumpshus to me ; an’ his face was red, too ; 
an’ I k’yed an’ k’yed an’ k’yed, an’ I can’t help 
myse’f ; ” and Hattie hid her face on Claire’s 
arm. 

“ Did Sweetheart get angry ? ” 

“ Any boy would. I just would like to see 
him touch Hattie again!” and the blue eyes 
flashed with indignation. “ When I’m a man 
I’m going to make him apologize to my sister ; 
you see if I don’t. Big boy like he is ! He is 
older than Harry.” 

“ What’ll he have to say when I is a young 
lady?” and the embryo lady tossed back her 
hair and tears for a moment’s glance at her 
brother. “Will he say: ‘Miss Hattie Grant, I 
is werry sorry I hurt your fat arm ; I hopes you 
is better bestist; forgive me’?' Then will we 


SAINT GILES. 


47 


kiss and make up ? I nessa goin’ to kiss him if 
I lives a hundred times forty-’leven.” 

“ You need not kiss him, dear, but you must 
forgive all who ask to be forgiven.” 

“ I nessa goin’ to forgive him ; no, nessa ! ” 

The young girl with her arms about the little 
child ; the boy, with flushed face, standing by 
her side, made a pleasing picture. So, indeed, 
thought Paul Bridgeman, as he sat beneath his 
white umbrella, sketching the fishermen along 
the shore. He wondered who these people 
could be ; evidently, the girl was too young to 
be other than an elder sister ; but, then, there 
was no trace of blended relationship between 
them. He was a stranger in Kenith, having 
come down from New York only the day before, 
that he might see the Kenith shore, in the fresh 
spring. 

Claire had said they must return. The five- 
forty train would be down before long, and, for 
mamma’s sake, they must be home before it was 


48 


PANSY STORIES. 


due. So, passing out from tlie willows, they 
reached the fence, where the bars must be low- 
ered and replaced, that the cows in the meadow 
should not get out ; then the way was free until 
they reached the home-clearing. Carle toiled 
diligently to get the fence-rail off, and Claire, 
seeing the efforts of her boy-escort, smiled as 
she came to help him. 

“ Not quite tall enough, Sweetheart,” she said, 
“let me help you.” 

But a heavy step from the other side, and a 
respectful, “Excuse me, but may I not assist 
you? ’’caused the trio to pause. Just beside 
them, but almost hidden in the hedge, stood a 
man, a young man, resting a strong, white hand 
on the rough fence, while in the other he held 
his wide-brimmed felt hat. His uncovered head 
was protected by a mass of sunny curls, which 
would not be brusheds mooth ; beneath a high, 
full brow, sparkled a pair of golden-brown eyes, 
which laughed as he spoke ; honest eyes they 


SAINT GILES. 


49 


were, too, forbidding mistrust. The mouth was 
hidden by a full beard of a lighter color than his 
hair, but of the same sunny hue. He was very 
tall, and Claire saw his face, with the blue sky 
as a background, as she glanced up at the ap- 
proach of the stranger. It was but the work of 
a moment, and they were parted. Somehow he 
could not go on with his work. The memory of 
Claire’s tones, the gentle “ I thank you,” were 
more real, though but a memory, than the fish- 
ermen along the shore, the restless, tumbling 
surf, or the glowing, changing colors of the 
April sky, and its irridescent echoes in the sea 
beneath. 

“ Do you know the gentleman, Sweetheart ? ” 
Claire asked, as they reached the road. 

“ I think he is an artist ; I saw his white um- 
brella, and artists always have such things. 
That’s what I mean to be some day.” 

It was Sunday morning, and the chimes of 

the little church rang out clear and musical, 
4 


50 


rANSY STORIES. 


and the many waters about the old town of 
Kenith laughed, and tossed their white caps 
high in jubilant delight. It was faster morn- 
ing — the congregation had assembled. The air 
was heavy with perfume. On every side flow- 
ers lifted their spotless faces, and wafted on 
every w~ave of air a generous fragrance. 

“ Azaleas — whitest of white, 

White as the drifted snow, 

Fresh-fallen out of the night, 

Before the coming glow 
Tinges the morning light ; 

When the light is like the snow — white — 

And the silence is like the light ; 

Light, and silence, and snow, — 

All-white!” 


Standing in the midst of these testimonials of 
the resurrection, Dr. Rennolds said, with bowed 
head, “Lord, we rejoice, to-day, that the tomb 
is empty, and heaven is full ! ” 

Lifting his head, he continued : “ Long years 
ago, the celebrated philosopher of Athens said, 


SAINT GILES . 


51 


‘ If death be a removal hence to another place, 
and what is said be true — that all the dead are 
there — what greater blessing can there be than 
this?’ 

“ Over the great man’s soul there fell a dark 
and dismal mantle of doubt. Through every 
gilded room of his being, hung with the match- 
less tapestries of his thought, illumed by the 
golden lamp of his intellect, and perfumed 
with the graceful flowers of his morality, there 
echoed and reechoed the dismal tollings of the 
bells of doubt. Let us rejoice to-day that 
Christ, our King, has not only conquered death, 
but that never more since His entrance into the 
City beyond the Mists, have the golden gates 
been closed. 

“ Mystery ? Ah, yes ! We stand in its presence 
to-day; but what of that ? Canst thou, oh, doubt- 
ful hearer, doubt on? Handle the dying 
harmonies of yonder golden pipe whose ghostly 
cadences haunt the secret chambers of your 


52 


PANSY STORIES. 


being. Bring before your eyes the Alchemist 
of subtile odors, whose fragrance freights the 
air. Tell me, oh, man ! what thou art, before 
thou enterest into questioning the gigantic plans 
of the Eternal God, whose only Son hath broken 
the bars of sin, and shame, and death ! Leaving 
the earth filled with the restful assurance of 
His power to save ; and flooding the grim dark 
blackness of the Valley of the Shadow of 
Death with the golden light of His presence. 
‘ Lo, I am with you always, even unto the end ! ’ 
Mystery is a flower whose roots sink down deep 
in the breast of earth ; but whose petals, unfold- 
ing slowly yet surely under the arching skies of 
humanity, burst into full bloom in that 4 zone 
of Calms ’ where, having been watered by the 
tears of sorrow, strengthened by the winds of 
doubt, perfumed by the fragrance of faith, ’tis 
worn as a snowy bloom on the Christian’s gar- 
ment of Righteousness. Now we know in 
part, 4 Let us rejoice that we will see Him as 


SAINT GILES. 


53 


He is.’ That He will guide and cheer, and 
guard us, and not a stranger.” 

Then, turning with radiant face to the con- 
gregation, he said : “ And now let the peace of 
faith, that washeth the soul from all doubt and 
sin be with you, with me, with all God’s chil- 
dren everywhere, both now and always. Amen.” 

Long after the service was over a woman 
lingered in the church. Without, beneath a 
spotless stone of marble rested the loved, who 
sleepeth: within, bowed ’neath the weight of 
separation, kneeling in the old home-pew, was 
Emma Goodwill. 

“ The voices ring which once were stilled, 

The pulses beat which once were chilled, 

Life is the victory of the grave, 

Christ is Lord of the Lord of Death!” 

Many comments were made upon Dr. Ren- 
nolds’ sermon. Mrs. Caminade, the former prin- 
cipal of Lane College for young ladies, thought 


54 


PANSY STORIES. 


it “ the finest she had heard the Doctor preach.” 
Plato had ever been a favorite of hers, no one 
could give her too much from ancient Greece.” 
Judge Kirkpatrick “admired Plato also,” but 
Mrs. Kirkpatrick “ admired the Christianity of 
the sermon ; its beautiful tone, etc,” while Mrs. 
Vroone said, “ it did her good” and Dr. Ren- 
nolds, coming amongst them at this juncture, 
exclaimed, “ that is the best you could say of 
any sermon. To do good is the highest ambi- 
tion a man can have — to perform the will of 
God.” 

Dr. Rennolds was an earnest man, devoid of 
ministerial cant, and traditional platitudes. One 
meets this class, or type of manhood in all sects : 
men who hold Christ above creeds, who preach 
His love over against the awfulness of eternal 
damnation. And wherever the love of God as 
manifested in His matchless Gift is preached, 
there souls are established in faith, for the doc- 
trine of love, God’s love, is the highest of all 


SAINT GILES. 


55 


doctrihes; love being the highest principle 
known to humanity. 

But good as Dr. Rennolds was, there were 
some members of his congregation who thought 
a change would be of benefit to the church. 
Mrs. Rennolds was delicate, she could not take 
any interest in the works of the church ; true, 
that before her health failed utterly, she worked 
amazingly well. But for her, there would have 
been no manse at all; and now their church 
property was as good if not better than any in 
the town. But a young man would put new 
life into everything, they thought. All of these 
remarks were borne to the ears of patient Dr. 
Rennolds, so one bright Sunday morning he 
called a meeting of the elders, and stated his 
convictions. He had received a handsome call 
to a church in Brooklyn, and, in view of the 
growing demand for young men, and the restless- 
ness of some of his members, he had thought best 
to consider the call. All of this he told with 


56 


PANSY STORIES. 


his usual Christian manner, and the elders were 
simply dumfounded. It was a natural thing 
for the church to want young men, but for such 

a church as church, Brooklyn, to have its 

eyes on Dr. Rennolds, why surely he must be 
worth more, much more than they had thought. 
They walked out of the church door, and down 
the paved walk between the monuments with 
bowed heads. It was a trying time. If they 
let Dr. Rennolds go, who would come in his 
place. Why, it was very surprising indeed, they 
had no idea of losing their minister ; true, they 
had thought him a little slow and growing old, 
he had been in Kenith a long, long time, some 
of these elders were youths when he came to 
them, and now they were in middle life. 

But Dr. Rennolds was firm, and, although as 
gentle as was his wont, still, he had determined 
upon a removal. It does not take long for an 
affair of sensation to run through a small 
town, and by the time of evening service all of 


SAINT GILES. 


57 


the influential members knew that Dr. Ren- 
nolds had received a call upon which he looked 
with favor. When the news reached Grayslope, 
it caused a great blackness to fall over the hearts 
of the inmates, for, what would they do with- 
out the minister ? Miss Prudence was no better, 
as to health, and Claire looked upon Dr. Ren- 
nolds as a father. Parting from friends is a 
severe trial in life, and a dearly loved minister 
becomes a part of our lives. To part from him is 
to uproot our lives, as it were : for who was it 
who stood beside us as we entered the sheltering 
fold of the church and with fatherly care warned 
us of dangers, and encouraged us with love ? 
who but this faithful friend — and later on 
when the mystery of death overtook us, and we 
stood by our hearts’ darlings in the speechless 
agony of that last parting, who but this more 
than friend parted the somber curtains and 
pointed us to where, through the rifts of the 
shadows, were the never-changing lights of the 


58 


PANSY STORIES. 


City of God — our God — whither, through faith 
in the Lord Christ, our loved ones had gone and 
where, if faithful to His word, we would meet 
them in that near Beyond. Ah, what stranger 
can enter our homes, and be to us what our old 
minister is ! Surely no young man, for though 
he have the energy of youth, he lacks the bind- 
ing silken tie of long experience. We like and 
enjoy the fervent enthusiasm of the young 
soldier of the cross ; but we love and venerate 
the snow-covered veteran who, bowed by the 
years, lifts his silvery locks to the heat of the 
sun, while the glory of conquered battles bathes 
face and form in golden splendor — the golden 
glory of that “ Peace that passeth understand- 
ing.” 

And so it was that before another month 
rolled round, Dr. Rennolds had accepted the call 
to the Brooklyn church, and Kenith Presby- 
terian church was vacant. “ Ready for the 
young minister ,” so Claire told Mrs. Angel, 


SAINT GILES. 


59 


as she laughingly recalled the trying episode of 
the minister’s call, on the day of the diamond 
dye experiment. 

Miss Sabetha Wickins’ store was the head- 
quarters for all gossip, and thither Mrs. Vroone 
directed her footsteps. The door was open, 
and the sweet June roses outside, were repro- 
duced in the scentless ones inside, for the win- 
dows and show-cases were like so many gardens 
in their gorgeous display of color. 

Miss Sabetha sat behind a thin screen of 
lace at a window sewing, when Mrs. Vroone 
entered, and, recognizing her old friend, called 
her back of the show-room to that most delight- 
ful retreat. Of course Miss Sabetha had heard 
all there was to hear of Dr. Rennolds, and, of 
course, she was very willing to retail it at the 
small cost of time and breath to Mrs. Vroone. 

It was a very sweet morning in June, and 
there were very interesting surroundings. 
There was no sweeter nook in Kenith than 


60 


PANSY S TOBIES. 


Sabetha Wickins’ store, and all the town loved 
to go there. The roses in the garden-bed 
blushed a deeper shade, however, as the human 
tongues lashed the victim of their gossip ; for 
human tongues are as cruel as human hearts 
are warm. 

“I’ve never cared much for Mrs. Rennolds 
since I sent her those chickens, and she turned 
them in the street,” said Miss Sabetha. 

“ Hush ! ” exclaimed Mrs. Vroone. “ Well, 
I never ! When did it happen ? ” 

“And you never heard? Well, it seems kind 
o’ mean now in me to be a tellin’ of it, when 
the town is as wet with tears as an April day 
is full of rain ; but I certainly did think you 
knew all about it, or, I would never have been 
the first to mention it. Howsomever, I’ll 
tell you, but you must not tell anybody, 
because, I do hope it has been forgotten, and 
I never did believe in digging in old graves 
after bones as had better be left to rot, and I’m 


SAINT GILES. 


61 


the last one to say a word against anybody, 
and you know it’s true, Miss Vroone.” 

Miss Sabetha never said Mrs. to any one, it 
was a habit born of her single life to call every 
woman Miss. How the roses blushed and the 
violets held their breath in the little garden- 
bed just under the window, within range of 
the voices ! 

“ Well,” continued Sabetha, “it was many a 
year ago, indeed, soon after Dr. Rennolds came 
here, that I sent — (Miss Vroone, how do you 
think this flower looks here ? ” and she turned 
the bonnet she was trimming around on her 
hand to get a good light on it. “ Yes, that is 
better.) Well, as I was a sayin’, it was soon 
after they came here, before the manse was 
built, and they was a livin’ with Polly Perkin, 
in the little house close by the church, an’ a 
doin’ all their own work, him an’ her, an’ she 
sick most of the time, then. I thought as how a 
chicken would be mighty encouragin’ to their 


62 


PANSY STORIES. 


appetites just about then, and I sent the purtyest 
pair I had as to feathers. Jemima, my cook, she 
did say as how they could not eat the feathers, 
when I was a thinking an’ a hexclaimin’ 
’bout the way them feathers was colored : but 
they was purty chickens, an I’ll leave it ter 
any one if they was not. Jemima said they was 
all looks, an no fat , but they was good, an’ a 
nice present, from one in my circumstance, to 
the minister. Well, what you think, Miss 
Vroone ! If they did not turn them chickens 
out to die in the street ! Jemima she say as 
how Jane Smith said her sister Lucy’s child saw 
Miss Rennolds a drivin ’em out ! I never was 
so set to in my life. I just thought I never 
could hear Dr. Rennolds preach again. I would, 
in the spite of all my tryin’ to prevent and feel 
pious-like, see them chickens betwixt him an’ 
me ! You know how it is, Miss Vroone. But I 
got over it, an’ I only tell you, because I know 
ef they commence them tricks in Brooklyn, 


SAINT GILES. 


63 


there is nothing to prevent a downright fuss, 
an’ we may get him back again ; so, it’s no use a 

goin’ on so over his goin’ away Why, bless 

my stars, ef there- ain’t Miss Goodwill a cornin’ 
over here. Miss Vroone, will you just step in 
the store-room, an keep her while I get a clove 
to bite, I have to have something on hand, she 
makes me ill all over.” 

Miss Goodwill wanted a little change, so she 
told Mrs. Vroone, and was glad to meet her. 
They wanted to present Dr. Rennolds with a gold 
watch, and a small donation from each member 
would soon bring up the required amount. 

By this time Miss Sabetha had her clove 
well caught between her teeth, and she re- 
sponded liberally to the demand. 

“No use to parlay,” she said, as Miss Go'odwill 
left ; “ I never parlay, an’ what I have to give I 
give, an’ forget it, all except them chickens, 
an’ I never can forget them an’ their purty 
feathers ! ” 


64 


PANSY STORIES. 


The Kirkpatricks said if Dr. Rennolds left 
they would too. They never could endure see- 
ing a stranger in the doctor’s place, and the 
whole congregation, with a few exceptions, was 
in violent protest against his removal. But, as 
I said, Dr. Rennolds had accepted the call ; and, 
when the June roses had blown themselves to 
death and the violets had closed their blue eyes 
for a long sleep, the old gray church was vacant 
indeed, and the manse alone and desolate. 
Meanwhile the Brooklyn people were rejoicing 
over their good fortune. 

It was not the five thousand per year that had 
so pleased Dr. Rennolds in this new church, as 
the prospect of a wider field of usefulness, and 
the growing restlessness of some of the mem- 
bers in the Kenith church had made him feel a 
change would be best for both pastor and 
people. 

He soon found five thousand in New York 
was not very much more than fifteen hundred 


SAINT GILES. 


65 


in Kenith. A minister’s house is a very pleas- 
ant place to stay in, and quite a number of per- 
sons they had known but very little of in Kenith 
made themselves very well known now that Dr. 
Rennolds was so conveniently situated for see- 
ing the wonders of New York. 

In August Miss Sabetha found it the very 
thing to be desired to stop at Dr. Rennolds’ and 
“ do her fall purchases.” She said it was a little 
out of the way and cost something on the cars, 
but it was almost as good as being in New 
York City — Brooklyn was so near. Then Mrs. 
Smith’s son had a lame leg, and so she wrote to 
Dr. Rennolds, “ Could he let her have a room 
for about a month, until Johnnie could be 
treated?” Of course Dr. Rennolds said “yes,” 
and the house was filled month after month, 
until Mrs. Rennolds’ health was too far gone to 
admit any one to the manse, and Dr. Rennolds 
stated the fact that in June of the following 
rear they would sail for Europe. 


66 


PANSY STORIES. 


And this is no high-colored romance I am 
writing ; nor were these uninteresting people. 
If you could see the smile playing around the 
lips of those who have lived through just such 
scenes in the homes of the clergy, you would 
know truth from fiction. 

The Kenith people were simply thoughtless 
people. Had they suspected the trouble and 
expense they were bringing to Dr. Rennolds 
they would have remained at home alway rather 
than add to the life of their cherished friend a 
burden he found all too heavy to be borne. 

It was in the summer of Dr. Rennolds’ 
sojourn in Europe that a grave trouble came to 
Claire. She had been teaching for quite a while 
in the Grant family and had grown very fond of 
them all ; but Carlton was to be sent abroad the 
next year, and Hattie was to go to college. 
This plan had been hit upon because Claire had 
found that she must get a higher position in 
order that Grayslope be kept up and Aunt 


SAINT GILES. 


67 


Prue’s ambition for her fed. If Dr. Rennolds 
were home he would be such a help. She 
wanted to teach in New York. She could make 
her own expenses very light, and the rest of her 
money Aunt Prue could have. New York 
schools paid good prices. To think was to act 
with Claire. So, when school closed and she 
had been for the first weeks of her vacation at 
home, she wrote to a business agency in New 
York for a position as teacher of elocution, 
French and German. Miss Wattles wrote “ that 
she would do better if she could spend a week 
or so in New York — that there was nothing like 
being on the spot : to come on in September, ” 
etc. 

Now Claire had not a friend in all of big 
New York, save a dear little lady physician 
whom she had met at college ; and she wrote to 
her, asking if she could board in her family for 
a week or so, to which request Dr. Mary Lane 
most generously responded “I am a very 


68 


PANSY STORIES. 


busy woman,” she wrote, “but, if you do not 
mind being left much of the time to your own 
affairs, I shall be more than glad to shelter you 
and give you all the influence I can effect.” 
There the matter rested, and Claire determined 
to get strong in the intervening time for her 
new undertaking in big, bustling New York. 

How sweet Grayslope appeared now that the 
thought of a possible separation intruded, and 
how she longed for her father’s council ! Was 
he dead ? Surely Dr. Rennolds would find out 
something from that land beyond the sea which 
would settle things. She had written him a 
long letter before he sailed telling him of her 
burdened heart, of how after all it was impos- 
sible to blot from her thought this fact that her 
father was alive. “ Surely some word will come 
to you, ” she wrote, “ some sounding from those 
deep waters of silence which have flooded my 
life with sorrow.” And Dr. Rennolds had as- 
sured her he would do all in mortal power to 


SAINT GILES. 


69 


find some evidence of St. Giles, coming down to 
Kenith himself the week before he sailed for the 
purpose, the sole purpose of assuring the young 
girl of his unselfish interest and determined 
practical help. It was a sweet restful visit in 
the last week of May that he made, and the fruit 
trees were all ablow with white and pink petals. 
Dr. Rennolds would be gone a year. He hoped 
his wife would be stronger in that time; 
but if not, he would remain longer. His pulpit 
would be filled by a gentleman from Europe, 
who was visiting New York. Dr. Rennolds felt 
this parting from Claire ; his heart went out in 
great tenderness to the fair young girl whose life 
was so singularly overclouded. “Does God 
mean that alway I shall live in this lonely way ? ” 
she questioned. “ My heart is young with hope 
— a sweet hope ! ” she exclaimed. “ Surely some 
day I shall see and have my father — my father ! 
O ! Dr. Rennolds, if you only knew the aching 
silence I pass through; often when my heart 


70 


PANSY STORIES . 


seems breaking with these questions I may never 
have answered, I turn to things about me for 
consolation, but oh, the silence ! It is more 
than I can bear ! ” And the girl bowed her head 
on the minister’s arm, and cried bitterly. He let 
her spend her grief freely, then, leading her to a 
seat beside a new-made grave, for they were in 
the churchyard, and the sun was setting in the 
western sky, he said, “ My daughter, God’s plans 
are not our plans. Are you not willing to trust 
Him even though it be that He calls you 
through the deeps to follow Him ? Then be 
brave, and keep my farewell words sunk deep in 
your heart, I will, if Grod wills , bring news to 
you when I return. Somehow, I know not why, 
but there is a sweet rest in my heart that it will 
be good news. Let us, kneeling here in this 
holy place, ask God’s blessing on my endeavors.” 

And there in the old churchyard, beside the 
new-made grave, in the sweet blossom-time, a 
prayer was borne on the wings of Love to those 


SAINT GILES. 


71 


far-away yet strangely near places, — the tem- 
ples of God’s Peace. And a rest came to the 
hearts of both, ere the sunset hour had passed, 
and a patient “ Thy will, not mine,” made holy 
music in the souls of man and woman. 

They had heard the grand harmony of Resig- 
nation which is chanted by angelic choristers 
around those who e’en while on earth know the 
“ Thy will ” of the soul when in the presence 
of the Father. 

The summer passed quickly, and September 
found Claire busy preparing herself for the New 
York trip ; it was full of uncertainty, and her 
heart failed her a little when thinking of her 
poor effort as compared with the influence so 
many others could bring to bear, even in the 
one thing of trying for a teacher’s position. Of 
course in a big city there was a plenty of work, 
but could she compete with so many ? 

Poor little girl ! W ell, the journey was taken 
and Dr. Lane could not have been kinder. So 


72 


PANSY STORIES. 


far, so good ; but when it came to meeting Miss 
Wattles, Claire found out that this busy (?) 
woman was a very different Miss Wattles on 
paper from the Miss Wattles in actual presence. 
Dr. Lane sat in an alcove while Claire talked to 
the’ agent at a table in a distant corner. On 
either side of the room were desks, at which 
were seated clerks — young girls whom Miss 
Wattles directed to bring her first this, then 
that book of reference, all the time talking to 
Claire in an off-hand sort of style, tormenting 
to one of Claire’s directness. Miss Wattles had 
not heard of any school as yet. She would let 
Miss Vamp know if she did, and Dr. Lane and 
Claire started once more for home. It was 
weary waiting for the young girl. Often as she 
walked the streets of the great city in those days 
of anxiety, did the longing for her father almost 
overcome the brave effort to face life’s difficul- 
ties. Everything seemed so full of life, no one 
needed help but herself, and what could she do 


SAINT GILES. 


73 


any way ? no one needed her in New York. And 
so the weeks passed, and the last of September 
would soon be here, and no news from Miss 
Wattles. 

One morning as Claire stood in the Metropol- 
itan Museum of Art, in the midst of the Cesnola 
collection under the North Gallery, she noticed 
beside one of the glass cases a gentleman stand- 
ing, examining not so much the origins of Greek 
art, as he was intent upon examining her face. 
Turning, he said, “ I beg pardon, but I think 
we have met before ; ” and Claire recognized the 
artist who had so kindly lifted the fence rail for 
her small escort in the summer days now so 
long gone by. He had changed a little, looked 
graver than in the sunlit pasture, and there 
was a wide band — a mourning band on his hat. 
Dr. Lane came up at this juncture and with a 
glad smile of welcome extended her hand, ex- 
claiming, “ Why, Mr. Bridgeman, how glad I am 
to see you ! ” Then followed an explanation of 


74 


PANSY STORIES. 


how Claire had met Mr. Bridgeman near Kenith 
a year ago, and, with an assumption of dignity 
on the part of the little M. D., a formal intro- 
duction followed. Mr. Bridgeman proved very 
helpful, telling Claire of how very important 
this collection was, and of how slow the Euro- 
pean governments had been in recognizing the 
importance, and of how it was a most valuable 
collection, it being a history of otherwise un- 
known Phoenician art. They laughed and 
talked of the meeting in Sussex and were quite 
amazed to find the morning had passed and 
they had not quite “ done up ” the museum. 

“ But we can come again,” Mr. Bridgeman 
remarked, as he parted from them. “ When may 
I find you at home ? ” he asked. 

“ Mondays, Wednesdays, and Saturdays I am 
at my New York clinic, I’m 4 at home ’ to you 
any other day. Come soon,” and Dr. Lane gave 
her dimpled little white hand to the grave-look- 
ing gentleman as they parted. 


SAINT GILES. 


75 


“ Now, why did I not think of Mr. Bridgeman 
before,” she remarked, as they were seated in 
the elevated car. 44 He is just the most helpful 
man I know, and the kindest. Nobody knows 
the amount of good that man does. He could 
have found you a situation long ago. I mean 
to ask him when he comes.” 

And so it all happened that Claire was out 
when Mr. Bridgeman called Friday morning, 
declaring he had something in his eye, and 
would be taken into Dr. Lane’s private office for 
treatment. 

44 You are a fine little woman to have such a 
visitor and never invite me to call ! ” he ex- 
claimed, as the doctor entered. 

44 And how could I know she would please 
you?” 

44 Don’t you care for my company around the 
city ? I could be of help in many ways, a man 
can be of use if women only would think so. Do 
you know, I don’t quite like these independent 


76 


PANSY STORIES. 


times. Men seem to be in the way, instead of 
needed,” and he tossed his hat down rather im- 
patiently. 

“ Come, let me look at your eyes. You do 
seem to be in trouble indeed. Have you pain 
in them? The eye is a very delicate affair, 
I assure you. Ah ! yes, I see,” and the dimpled 
hands moved gently but firmly over the man’s 
face, laying the lid of the eye far back, and 
moving the ball far out. “ A little longer de- 
lay and there might have been serious trouble. 
You must either come to me, or see some one 
else for treatment. There is difficulty about the 
nerve.” 

Then, seating him before the table where the 
battery rested, she proceeded to treat him with 
electricity. He was very much run down : had 
been too busy he suspected over a painting he 
wanted for the fall exhibit — the picture of that 
very face he had seen for the first time in Sus- 
sex, down by the Willow Grove fence. 


SAINT GILES. 


77 


“You see there had been no real introduc- 
tion, no formal words, I mean, but I felt I knew 
her ; the face has been with me ever since. There 
are some touches I could give it, were she will- 
ing to give me a sitting, which would add 
materially to the. finish, and value of the work. 
Do you think she would sit about an hour for 
me ? ” 

i, 

“ Why, yes ; I presume she would.” 

“ W ell, you arrange for it. But what are you 
doing ? I thought you were through, when the 
noise ceased. I don’t feel anything.” 

The doctor smiled, then touched the sponge 
to a nerve, when Mr. Bridgeman sprang out of 
the chair with a bound. 

“ Silent forces are the most powerful, you see. 
But I only resorted to that violent means in 
order to convince you what was at work, though 
noiseless. Paul,” she continued, “ I am very 
much interested in my guest. She is a fine 
woman, though so young, and she is with me 


78 


PANSY STORIES. 


now that she may find a position as teacher. 
Her business agent has given her very little 
help, I fear, unless, indeed, she has been kinder 
this morning, and the poor child is disheartened.” 

“ Teaching is her forte, then? Well, I should 
not have dreamed it, she seems such a child. 
Supppse I try to do something for her. Tell 
her to stop going to Miss Wattles, and trust to 
me. I do not make any charge for services ; but 
if she will consent to sit for me, we will con- 
sider it even.” And so saying Mr. Bridgeman 
left the office. He would be there again the 
following week, he said. 

Claire returned late in the afternoon, but her 
step was weary, and she hastened past the office 
door, where the murmur of voices greeted her, 
to her own room. Quickly laying aside her 
cloth dress for a tea-gown, she prepared for 
rest in the large hemp hammock before the 
open fire. She had seen Miss Wattles again, 
and had been directed to a Mrs. Spiers’ school. 


SAINT GILES. 


79 


Thinking she would feel more content if she 
sought out the lady at once, she left the agency 
and hurried along, down this street, and up 
that, till crossing over into a cool avenue she 
found the house she was looking for. It was 
a brown stone house, setting somewhat in from 
the street, with fountains playing in the circle 
in front, and the long double row of trees either 
side of the avenue gave the place a delightful 
appearance. Yes, Mrs. Spiers did want a 
teacher of elocution, but, — and the lady looked 
at Claire questioningly, could she fill it ? “You 
are very young,” she said, “ and the students 
are young ladies—not little girls, as you have 
been accustomed to teach, I suspect.” Claire 
was confident of her ability. Would she recite 
for her? Mrs. Spiers asked, and without hes- 
itation Claire consented. It was a laughable 
affair in one sense, and Claire enjoyed the 
amusement, so confident was she of her own 
power. “ Make your own selection I want to 


80 


PANSY STORIES. 


hear your tones ; ” and standing alone in the 
stately room there came these sweet words of 
Mrs. Browning to her memory, and she re- 
peated them softly, sweetly, with her flower-like 
face upturned to that of the curious face of her 
possible employer. 

“ Speak low to me, my Saviour, low and sweet, • 

From out the hallelujahs sweet and low, 

Lest I should fear and fall, and miss Thee so, 

Who art not missed by any that entreat. 

Speak to me as to many at Thy feet — 

And if no precious gems my hands bestow, 

Let my tears drop like amber while I go 
In reach of Thy divinest voice complete 
In humanest affection — thus, in sooth, 

To lose the sense of loving! As a child, 

Whose song-bird seeks the wood forevermore, 

Is sung to in its stead by mother’s mouth; 

Till, sinking on her breast, love-reconciled, 

He sleeps the faster that he wept before.” 

Mrs. Spier’s face was a picture, as Claire 
ended the poem. 44 Yes, she would do.” Then 
some business matters as to terms, etc., were 
talked of, and the next week Miss Vamp would 


SAINT GILES. 


81 


enter upon her duties. French and Elocution 
were the only studies Claire would have to 
teach, as Fraulein Heine taught German. So 
here she was, fairly engaged by the New York 
teacher. Swinging before the fire, Claire built 
many airy castles of how she and Aunt Prue 
should enjoy the vacations, and Grayslope be re- 
tained and improved, and, falling asleep, she did 
not hear the soft footfall of Dr. Lane as she came 
into the darkened room. The little doctor stood 
some time looking at the picture — the glowing 
coals on the hearth that shed a soft crimson 
light in the room, the dark corners, and the 
low-swung hammock with its fair occupant — 
and, turning, she left the weary girl for her own 
room. “ Let her sleep,” she said, “ she needs 
rest.” And they did not meet until the tea-bell 
called them downstairs. 

It was just a little disappointing to find Claire 
had a position, as Dr. Lane had thought of Mr. 
Bridgeman’s offer ever since his call in the morn- 


82 


PANSY STORIES. 


ing, and, knowing his influence, had imagined a 
much finer prospect in store for Claire than a 
position in Mrs. Spiers’ school promised to be. 
However, it might result in very good things, 
and, at any rate, the suspense being at an end, 
Claire would be better content. Seek a board- 
ing house ? Why, no ; she was to stay there, 
provided that it suited her, and Claire felt her 
life was surely being sheltered, as she fell asleep 
that night with the prospect of the next week’s 
duties clearly planned, and her friend’s loving 
kindness making a sweet restful harmony in her 
life. But Mr. Bridgeman was not content when 
he found his services not required. 

44 Just as I said, my little M. D.,” he remarked 
Monday morning as he seated himself for treat- 
ment. 44 Ladies do not want help, they do every- 
thing for themselves now ; they are so strong- 
minded.” 

44 Well, would you have them as they used to 
be, as you say? For myself I prefer a strong 


SAINT GILES. 


83 


mind to a weak one, and I don’t believe you 
know what you are talking about when you say 
you prefer weak-minded women. I notice,” 
continued Dr. Lane, “ that men say they prefer 
dolls, but when it comes to friendship they 
select women of brains, strong-minded women, 
if you please, who are firm and true, gentle 
and sincere, who rejoice in their womanhood as 
you do in your manhood, holding it a sacred 
thing. Do you know, I rejoice every day I live 
that God made me a woman. ’Tis such an aw- 
ful, holy, sacred gift, this gift of womanhood, 
and such reverent hands should be clasped 
about it, I sometimes am overcome with a sense 
of fear lest I shatter the precious gift by care- 
less handling. ’ 

“This is not telling me if Miss Vamp will sit 
for me,” Mr. Bridgeman laughingly responded. 

“ I’ve not mentioned it to her ; suppose you do 
it. I am sure she will not refuse, but it will 
have to be some time in the late afternoon, 


84 


PANSY STORIES. 


since she will be in school through the mornings 
until one o’clock. I wish you success.” 

And the doctor proceeded to fill her case with 
medicines previous to a long journey over the 
big city in visiting patients. 

Once more we look in upon Grayslope. It 
has been a lonely winter for Miss Prudence ; 
but for Claire’s sake, she has kept a brave heart 
and her troubles in her own breast. Many times 
the loneliness has overcome her cheerfulness, 
and she determined to write for her niece’s re- 
turn. Just at this time, however, in the midst of 
the winter’s fiercest blasts, something happened 
to Miss Prudence that banished all thought of 
loneliness. 

It was at the close of a very stormy day, that, 
as Susan brought the lamps in, she remarked, 
“ There’s a Europe vessel off shore and calling 
for a pilot.” Now there was nothing remark- 
able for a foreign vessel to be in sight of Kenith, 
but Miss Prudence arose from her position by 


SAINT GILES. 


85 


the fire, and seemed in haste to make her house 
ready for strangers. “No vessel can live in 
such a sea as this,” she exclaimed. “As ours 
is the nearest house, we must be ready for use. 
There will be sad need of help.” 

By this time all hands were astir, men were 
crowding upon the beach ; the story of a 
vessel in distress having reached many warm 
hearts anxious to help their less fortunate 
fellows. 

Signals of distress could be seen from the 
windows of Grayslope, and Miss Prudence sent 
word to bring any of the crew who were serious- 
ly hurt to her house, it being nearer. Already 
a room was prepared, a bright fire on the hearth, 
and dainty linen on the bed perfumed with rose- 
leaves. But none too soon. A low murmur of 
voices in the hall, the steady tramp of men 
bearing a heavy burden, and Miss Prudence 
knew her work, for which she had been wait- 
ing, was before her. Susan had led the way, 


86 


PANSY STORIES. 


and, when Miss Vamp entered the room, the 
men were busy restoring the half -drowned 
man. 

“This is no place for you, Miss Vamp,” they 
said, but the sight of the man’s hand had star- 
tled Miss Prudence. On that hand was a ring ; 
the counterpart of that ring Miss Prudence 
wore herself. 

By morning the stranger had been restored to 
life but not to consciousness. There would be 
a long illness, the doctor said, but he might 
live. So, day by day, Miss Prudence and her 
servants nursed the stranger back to life. It 
was a long weary task. She wrote Claire of her 
charge, and when Christmas came, once more 
bringing Claire to Grayslope, Miss Prudence 
hoped her patient would be well. 

One morning, near the last of December, as 
Miss Vamp sat beside her invalid, she heard a 
voice quite near call, “ Prudence, Prudence, 
do I see you, or am I dreaming ? ” and going 


SAINT GILES. 


87 


closer, the patient, untiring woman fell on her 
knees beside the bed, answering, “ Yes, darling, 
it is I ; but be quiet, dear, I will not leave you.” 

Yes, it was St. Giles, in his right mind after 
all these weeks of terrible illness. St. Giles ! 
but oh, how changed ! 

Miss Prudence had suspected his identity 
from the ring ; but had reasoned that a stranger 
might have found the ring, so reluctant was she 
to own that St. Giles still lived. 

But now all doubt was removed. 

Kenith was alive with excitement. The 
Vamps had ever been a social mystery, and St. 
Giles a ghostly vision. Rumors of the long ship- 
wreck ran thick through the town ; but Gray- 
slope is silent and still, and voices are hushed. 
St. Giles Vamp is ill unto death. Some of 
the older folks remembered him as he came in 
their midst ; but it had been years ago, and be- 
lieving him dead had caused even his memory 
to become mystic and unreal. For it is a fact 


88 


PANSY S TOBIES. 


that man lives after death in the memories of 
but few. 

Purposely I pass over the events of the fol- 
lowing weeks. Must we part the sacred curtain 
of emotions and enter the holy sanctuary of 
affection, that we may witness the joy over one 
that was lost, but is found ? 

In the Vamp pew, the Rev. Carlton Harris, 
Dr.'Rennolds’ successor, finds every Sabbath a 
tall man whose hair is as white as it is soft and 
fine. The man’s face, pale and worn ; his man- 
ner gentle and sweet ; and beside him, with a 
peace in her heart which shines through her 
beautiful face, that peace past all earthly beauty, 
sits Claire. 

Nor does she weary as weeks lengthen into 
months, at the recital of the long, long shipwreck 
upon the lone island ; of the answered signal ; 
the return of the rescued home. 

It is springtime, and as St. Giles and Claire 
stand in the old churchyard one Sabbath after- 


SAINT GILES. 


89 


noon, St. Giles, holding his daughter’s hand in 
his, tells her of how he has longed with a long- 
ing past words, in those separating years, for a 
moment such as this, when he might look down 
upon the face of the living Claire, the gift of 
that more precious Claire who awaits them both 
in the land of the To-morrow. “ God leads us on 
through doubt and fear, out into the perfect- 
ness of living. And I think He tests us up to 
our strength, but never beyond it, if we love Him 
through Christ.” 

And the evening shadows fell about them, as 
straight from the west there came a glow from 
the far-off glories, making a great shining light 
about the tall, foreign-looking man and his gen- 
tle daughter, falling in golden bars over the 
graves of the dead. While a voice they recog- 
nize as belonging to the minister exclaims, 
“ Amen ! For His mercy endureth forever.” 


GRANDMA GILBERT; OR, THE OLD 
GRAY MARE. 


“ Tell me a story, grandma,” I said, as I sat 
by the dear old lady’s side one summer after- 
noon, while the perfumed air from the rose-gar- 
den came in through the open window, bathing 
us in its sea of delightful odor. “ Yes, a story,” 
I answered, as she lifted her mild blue eyes in 
questioning significance. 

“ Why, child, I’ve told you all I know, I’m 
sure,” my grandma said ; but to my earnest 
entreaty she yielded, and quietly folded the 
dainty work she had in her lap, and related the 
following : 

“ In the summer of 18 — it was thought best 

for me to leave my quiet country home to attend 
90 


GRANDMA GILBERT. 


91 


a school in L — — , a flourishing town many miles 
away, and I was very anxious to go, as the 
school afforded me but a poor opportunity for 
gaining the information I craved in the section 
of the State in which my father resided ; then, 

again, we had relations living in L and I 

thought there could be nothing nicer in the 
world than to be with them, as I dearly loved 
them. I think, too, there was a little pride 
mixed with all my other feelings ; it would be 
so pleasant to tell the girls at Miss Hatton’s 
school, when the vacation came, that I should 
not return there, but would be sent to school 

in L next September. Ah ! yes ; I think I 

liked this part of it very well indeed. Human 
nature is a grand mixture of good and bad, 
my child ; but I have to smile over my weak- 
ness as I look back. After all, I was a very 
young child, and the pride was natural. Trav- 
eling in those days was not as it is now, and 
to go from Glendale to L- was a long 


92 


PANSY STORIES . 


journey. There were no cars, and unless you 
had your own horses you had to ride in the 
stage, a by no means comfortable one at the 
best, too. I thought it a very doubtful matter 
for some time about my going at all. My father 
looked perplexed over it, and my dear mother 
was troubled. My brother Till offered to drive 
over with me if our father would allow us to 
have Nero, a famous trotter ; but such a thing 
could not be dreamed of, both father and mother 
said, as Nero was too gay to trust in the hands 
of children. Now, Till did not like this at all; 
he thought himself almost a man. He was 
several years older than myself, and had been 
promised a coat the very next suit he had made. 
I knew it was impossible for father to leave 
home at that time of the year, so I almost gave 
up the thought. One morning Till said to 
mother, 4 Why not ask grandpa for the old gray 
mare ? she is safe, and would take us over the 
mountain without any trouble.’ The gray mare 


GRANDMA GILBERT. 


93 


belonged to grandma, and was the only horse 
that she could drive ; and I felt at once that 
Till had taken a great liberty, and wished he 
had not said a word about the gray mare. Im- 
agine my surprise when I found mother was 
entertaining Till’s question favorably. My 
heart almost stood still. I don’t think I knew 
before that time how much I wanted to go to 

school in L . Almost breathless I waited for 

mother’s answer. ‘ W e can ask your grandpa,’ 
she said ; ‘ he can but refuse us, you know ; ’ and 
she smiled as she looked up and found how 
anxiously I was waiting to know what would 
be decided upon. Till went out whistling a 
song, resting one hand on my head as he passed, 
saying, 4 Cheer up, Puss.’ Till called me by this 
name when he meant to be very kind. I must 
have been looking very gloomy to have worked 
on his feelings to the extent that made him 
brave enough to ask for the gray mare. 

“ Mother said she would ask grandpa the first 


94 


PANSY STORIES. 


time lie came in, and I hastened down to the 
kitchen, which was out from the house a little 
distance, to tell Kittie. I believe in those days 
I told her every joy and sorrow. She was stand- 
ing by the table with her arms bare above the 
elbows working bread, and seeing my bright 
face, she cried : 4 Bress my soul alive ! is you 
found a pu’se ob gold ? Tell Kittie, honey, 
what has da done to yo ? ’ 4 Oh, Kittie,’ I said, 

4 1 expect, after all, I’ll get to go to school. Till 
is going to ask for the gray mare, and Kittie, do 
you think grandpa will let us have her? ’ 4 Wait 
an’ see,’ Kittie said. 4 1 spec as how ole miss kin 
fix her ’rangements, an’ you’ll git to go, chile, 
you mind ole black Kittie’s words, now, you’ll 
git to go, jest as sartin as de sun shines.’ What 
a world of comfort I found in 4 ole black Kittie’s 
words,’ and after watching her toss the bread in 
her soft black hands until I had become quiet, 
I returned to the house. 

44 The next day was Sunday, and, although I 


GRANDMA GILBERT. 


95 


knew grandpa would be in to dine with us after 
church, still I did not think mother would ask 
him then, as my father would not think it right 
to attend to business on the Sabbath day. 
Nevertheless, I could not help feeling uneasy as 
we returned home, and I saw mother talking 
very earnestly with grandpa in the dining-room. 
Just then Kittie came along the hall, and, seeing 
me, she said, ‘ It’s no harm ef I ’s been listenin’ ; 
yer grandpa he say : “ Pattie, I feels powerful 
unsartin like ’bout dis ’rangement, but I’ll ax 
yer mother.” Now, child, yo’ is gwine to go, 
honey. Don’t you see, men folks has to say no 
at first. Da tinks it’s kind ob powerful like — 
quinsoquancial. Yo’ see Kittie, does you ? Well, 
jest so sure as she is here dis bressed day, you 
is gwine to git de ole gray hoss.’ And I believed 
her. Later my mother told me she had asked 
grandpa, and what he told her. ‘So it now 
rests with grandma. If she is willing it will 
not be many weeks before you start.’ Dear, 


96 


PANSY STORIES. 


dear mother, I can see her now with the tears 
in her eyes, as she asked : 4 Does my little girl 
want to leave me so badly ? ’ Now I know what 
my going from home meant to her. Then I was 
a thoughtless child, full of the wine of bright 
anticipations. 

“ The next day there came a servant to Glen- 
dale from my grandpa’s. He brought a note 
from grandma to my mother, in which was her 
consent for Till and Anna to have the gray 
mare any time after my school closed, that my 

parents desired to send me to L . I can’t 

begin to tell you how glad I was. 

“ I never knew writing to look so well as that 
of grandma’s did in the little note, and, although 
I knew Kittie could not read one word, still I 
asked to be allowed the pleasure of at least 
showing it to her. Kittie’s joy found expression 
in tears, however, and I felt sorry I let her see 
the mysterious writing. 

“‘What Kittie do now, wid you ober de 


GRANDMA GILBERT. 


97 


mountain? What she do, I say? Why, child, 
I has had you ’long wid me all dis time, an’ 
what will Kittie do wid you out oh her sight ? ’ 
and she passed out of the door, down under the 
fruit-trees, with the end of her blue-checked 
apron up to her eyes. 

44 Leaving home for the first time is a sad ex- 
perience. At least, I found it so. My father 
was a very dignified gentleman, and if he felt 
grieved at parting with me, said very little 
about it. He it was who insisted upon us chil- 
dren calling our parents 4 father ’ and 4 mother.’ 
He was an Englishman by birth, and did not like 
my mother’s Virginia way of saying 4 ma ’ and 
4 pa’; so we said ‘father’ and ‘mother,’ and 
called my mother’s parents ‘grandpa’ and 
4 grandma.’ It seemed strange to us at school, 
and the children laughed over it at first ; but 
they became accustomed to it at last, or, at 
least, they no longer found amusement at our 
expense. 


98 


PANSY STORIES. 


“ Miss Hatton expressed much sorrow when 
I mentioned the fact of my not returning, and, 
now that the time had come, I felt very sad 
myself. It is a trying thing to say good-bye. 
I found it so then ; and the little schoolroom 
looked brighter and sweeter than ever I had 
known it when, upon the afternoon of the last 
day in the July term, I helped Miss Hatton 
close the old wooden shutters and sat for the 
last time on the large stone that served as a 
step at the door. 

You’ve been an obedient child, Anna,’ 
Miss Hatton said when we parted. ‘ I hope 
you may like your new teacher and learn rap- 
idly.’ 

“ Then I kissed her and went down the green 
walk which led over the hill from the school- 
house. Dear me! it seems but yesterday that 
all these things happened. 

“Mother decided to pack my things in the 
gig-box. Till would have a few changes in a 


GRANDMA GILBERT. 


99 


satchel. As he would return in a few days, it 
would not be necessary for him to take many. 
When mother folded my sky-blue silk coat, 
she remarked : 4 Anna, I would like you to be 
mindful of this. If a drop of water should get 
on it, it would be ruined. Remember, my child ; ’ 
and I promised. I knew how dear to her this 
coat was, it haying been made out of her sec- 
ond-day dress, and I valued it highly. Well, 
this coat was folded between towels, and placed 
in the bottom of the gig-box, where the rest of 
my belongings soon found their way. 

44 The morning for us to start came soon 
enough now. Till was in high spirits, and 
laughed over my ‘foolish tears,’ as he called 
them. Mother said they were very precious 
tears, and that she should think much less of 
her little girl if she had not felt sad over leav- 
ing her home. 

44 How very dear everything was ! I said : 
4 Till, did the birds ever sing so sweetly, or the 


100 


PANSY STORIES. 


flowers smell more fragrant than now ? ’ And 
lie answered: ‘Suppose you give it up and 
stay home. I don’t believe you want to go at 
all.’ And then I cried again, and said : ‘ I 
would not give up going for the world.’ And 
Till looked on and remarked : ‘ I never knew 
anything so strange as a girl ! ’ 

“ After we had started (for I find I shall have 
to pass over the good-bye scene at home ; it is 
sad to me, even after all these long years) — 
after we had started Till handed me a piece of 
paper bearing grandpa’s handwriting. At first 
I thought it was about some medicine, for it 
was in the style of his directions; but, seeing 
Till smile, I read on, and found they were 
directions, to be sure, but not about medicine, 
as I suspected. We were to drive so many 
miles, and then rest. Grandpa knew every foot 
of the way, and had numerous friends living 
here and there through the country, who, he 
said, would be delighted to see us; and Till 


GRANDMA GILBERT. 


101 


promised to obey every word grandpa had writ- 
ten, or we could not have had the gray mare 
and the gig. 

“ Colonel Johnson’s was the first place on the 
list, and, as we went along so rapidly, I felt 
sure it would not be long before we reached the 
plantation. How beautiful everything looked 
as we drove along ! People miss much flying 
through the country as they do now in the cars. 

44 4 We will not hurt the gray mare at this 
rate,’ Till said. 

“Just then I noticed a boy on a fence close by, 
and asked him if he could tell us where Colonel 
Johnson lived. 

“ 4 ’Deed I kin. Jis’ dribe in. Dat’s him on 
de step. See him, now, missie ? ’ 

“ So we drove in, and the Colonel, seeing us, 
came down the drive to meet us. Till told him 
who we were, and the old gentleman took me 
in his arms at once, saying : 4 Come in, come 

in. Dr. Pendleton’s grandchildren! Wei- 


102 


PANSY STORIES. 


come ? I should think you are ! Why, ’tis 
almost as good as seeing the doctor himself, to 
hear from him in this way ! ’ 

“ Noticing Till about to leave the horse in the 
care of the servant boy, I gave his jacket a 
violent pull, as I said : c The gray mare, Till ! 
Look after her yourself.’ I was so afraid 
something would happen to her if Till left 
her. 

“ ‘ I had better see that the boy is careful 
with our horse,’ he said to the Colonel. ‘ She 
is a valuable animal and belongs to my grand- 
father. I feel responsible, sir.’ Till said this 
in such a manly manner I felt sorry I pulled 
his jacket. However, I do not think any one 
noticed it. 

“ What a wonderful man our grandpa was ! 

we heard much of him in the drive to L . 

There is nothing better in this world than a 
good name: remember this, my dear. After 
resting awhile we left Colonel Johnson and 


GRANDMA GILBERT. 


103 


his kind wife, who would have us partake of 
some refreshments before we started. 

“ That night we spent at General Snowdon’s, 
another name we found in the directions given 
us, which we were trying to obey. I did not 
have to remind Till this time of the gray mare, 
nor did he ever say a word to me about my 
having pulled his jacket, which I thought was 
very kind of him. Everything had passed 
along nicely, and when we left General Snow- 
don’s, Till said : 

tu We have only twelve miles before us now, 
and we will get to L by noon.’ 

“ 4 How well the gray mare looks ! ’ I ex- 
claimed. 

“ 4 Yes,’ Till answered, 4 the trip has done her 
good.’ 

44 Just here I thought best to rest awhile, that 
we might eat some of the nice things our dear 
mother had put in the lunch-bag for us. I also 
had Till to get out and look after my valuables 


104 


PANSY STORIES. 


in the bottom of the gig. My bine silk coat 
caused me much uneasiness ; as we had gone 
through a number of brooks, I feared some 
water might have gotten in, and felt very 
happy I tell you, when Till said, ‘ It’s all safe 
and dry, Anna ! ’ 

“ After this little halt, we did not stop again 
until we reached the river. We had promised 
grandpa that we would not drive through, but 
over on the bridge, and when we came to the 
turn where the road led in the river, and the 
bridge opened before us, Till said : 

“ 4 1 do wish I had not promised grandpa : the 
water is not deep ; and don’t you see the island 
in the center where we can rest awhile ? ’ 

“ I said, 4 Yes ; but we must mind grandpa ; 
he knows best. It may be deeper on the other 
side.’ 

“ The gray mare, was drinking freely all this 
time, and Till so worked on my imagination, 
that I thought if grandpa were with us, he 


GRANDMA GILBERT. 


105 


would not say no ; so we drove in, the water 
splashing and sparkling in the sunshine. What 
a frolic it was ! Till forgot all about his being 
so large a boy ; all about his promised coat in 
the winter ; indeed we had forgotten every- 
thing for the moment but that we were in the 
midst of a beautiful stream, with the little 
waves dashing and dancing at every step the 
gray mare took, and both Till and I laughed as 
loud as a boy and girl could, and this was 
pretty loud, I tell you. We were beside our- 
selves with glee. The island was more beau- 
tiful than we had supposed, such long grasses, 
so deep, and so green, where the little flowers 
nodded in the cool dampness. We could see 
men on the shore across the water ; and beyond, 
rising high against th6 sky, rose the tall steeples 

of the churches. ‘ That is L ,’ Till said ; 

‘ we had better drive on ; ’ but now there came 
a great difficulty. The river this side of the 
island was rapid and swollen. I insisted upon 


106 


PANSY STORIES. 


going back to the bridge ; but Till would not 
listen, and every step the horse took only made 
our situation worse, as by this time the water 
was almost on the floor of the gig, and our feet 
were damp from the splashing. At last the 
gray mare refused to go, and we could feel the 
heavy waters bearing the gig out from the 
direction of the town. Yes, the gray mare 
could no longer keep her footing, and we were 
floating out to the sea ! The water was in our 
laps now, and Till bade me stand up and help 
him shout aloud for help. How I wished we 
had minded grandpa ! ‘ What shall we do ? ’ 

I cried. By this time we had attracted the 
attention of the men on the shore, and now 
I could see a young man coming with several 
strong serving-men behind him with ropes and 
a boat, and I felt our danger was over.' Yes, 
they would save us ! Nearer they came until 
close enough to get the rope around the neck 
of the gray mare, and by this means they 


GRANDMA GILBERT. 


107 


pulled us ashore. The servant men were in 
the water obeying the command of the young 
gentleman who remained in the boat. My 
feelings upon finding help, I could not tell you, 
my dear ; but a great trouble met us at this 
moment. The poor gray mare had given out ; 
she fell upon the shore, and all the men could 
do would not revive her. 

“ ‘ Oh, Till,’ I cried, in my distress, ‘ will 
she die ? What will we do ! what will we do ? ’ 

“ The youth who had come to our assistance 
comforted us all he could by saying he had 
.seen horses this way before, and that his men 
knew just what to do for her. 4 Did she drink 
much water?’ he asked Till, and I said ‘ Yes ; 
and will it kill her ? Oh, tell me, will she die ? ’ 
But all the working and attention did no good ; 
and before our friends could get to us from 
the town, the old gray mare breathed her last. 
Cousin Charles Summerville said, as he put us 
in his carriage, that he would have her buried 


108 


PANSY STORIES. 


out on his farm, as he knew how Grandma 
Pendleton prized her ; and in the afternoon, 
when we were dressed and over our fright, we 
all went out with Cousin Charles and his 
family to the place where they were to bury 
the poor, faithful horse ; and we shed many 
tears, at least I did, and I’m sure I saw Till 
use his handkerchief pretty freely, too ; but he 
said he did nothing of the kind when I told 
him about it. My dresses were attended to, 
and as they were summer ones no harm was 
done to them by the water, but the sky-blue 
silk coat was utterly ruined. 

“ 4 Till,’ I asked, 1 what will you tell grandpa, 
for we must write to him at once ? ’ 

44 4 I’ll tell him the truth, Anna,’ he said, and 
he did. 

44 Grandpa’s answer was just like him. He 
wrote : 

44 4 I’m sorry my pretty Jennie’s horse is 
dead (grandpa called grandma his pretty 


GRANDMA GILBERT. 


109 


Jennie when he was feeling very tender over 
her) ; but, my children, if it teaches you the 
lesson of obedience, I wish you to learn, I am 
willing to pay for your instruction, even though 
it be with the life of the old gray mare.’ 

“ There are some things in life which cost us 
much, my dear ; but Till and I needed no 
second lesson of this kind, for, whenever we 
were tempted to disobey, we had only to 
remember the sorrow we cost our dear ones, 
and we did as we were told without demur.” 

“ Did you see much of the youth who 
rescued you ? ” I asked. 

“ Why, yes, my child ; he was very kind to 
both of us, and after Till left he came often to 
see me, and I was very fond of him, in fact — 
well, I had forgotten that you do not know — 
why, dear, he was your grandpa.” 

“ Oh, yes, I remember him,” I answered ; then 
I stole out, after pressing a warm kiss on 
Grandma Gilbert’s brow, for I knew then why 


110 


PANSY STORIES. 


the tears were in her eyes, and why her voice 
trembled over the last words of her story, for 
only a few short years had passed since she 
parted from him ; and the little flowers were 
blooming now on his grave which she had 
planted. 






MOSSES, OLD AND DRY. 


It is a long way back, and the years are 
thickly covered which lie between us and the 
scenes about to be related. Will you grow 
weary, reader, preferring the shade of some 
friendly season close by, where the echo sounds 
not so faint, the outlook seems more genial, the 
mosses, when found, fresher, greener ? Then let 
me tell you that I doubt not, if the history of 
this present time which, like a beautiful dream, 
is all about your senses, were written, it would 
contain much the same story that I find folded 
under these mosses, old and dry. For while 
ever human passions sway the will of man un- 
controlled by the spirit of our Master, sin must 

flourish in high places, and sensitive hearts — 

111 


112 


PANSY STORIES. 


hearts consecrated to holy works, must need 
walk in the shadows of Gethsemane. 

“ Down shadowy lanes, across strange streams 
Bridged over by our broken dreams, 

Behind the mythy cape of years, 

Close to the great salt font of tears, 

The garden lies; strive as you may, 

You cannot miss it on your way, 

All paths that have been or shall he, 

Pass somewhere through Gethsemane! 

“ All those who journey, soon or late, 

Must pass within the garden gate; 

Must kneel in darkness there, 

And battle with some fierce despair. 

God pity those who cannot say, 

‘Not mine, but Thine; ’ who only pray 
‘Let this cup pass,’ and cannot see 
The purpose in Gethsemane.” 

It does not signify what year it was ; as I said 
before, it was many ye^rs ago, and it may be 
twenty, and it may be fifty years have passed 
by since the scenes took place in the town of 
Grayspire, of which, in the light of this year, 
1887, I now write. But it does signify in the 


MOSSES , OLD AND DRY. 118 

rounding out of present lives, whether they 
heed these lessons, o’er which the moss has 
formed, or whether in careless haste they are 
entirely passed by. 

Come with me, reader. This one long street 
leads to the oldest church in the State. It 
passes by many sweet homes, many joyous faces, 
many shadows, and much sunshine in its jour- 
ney to the church, whose name the town wears 
with much grace. Next to the church, where 
the street broadens into the wayside road, stands 
the cottage home of the pastor of Gray spire. 

The afternoon sunlight — that soft, golden sun- 
light of the first sweet days of autumn, falls 
over the paved path that leads from the church 
door over across the churchyard between a line 
of tombstones to the cottage. Dr. Randolph is 
walking in this afternoon sunlight; up and 
down, up and down, in restless haste he wan- 
ders. The soft mellow sunlight falling all about 
him, as though by its golden brightness to ban- 


114 


PANSY STORIES. 


ish this mood of sadness, perplexity, whatever 
it might be. 

He pauses beside a tall monument which is 
close by the outer gate, and by which, Sabbath 
after Sabbath, the congregation must pass as 
they enter and depart from the modest stone 
church a few yards beyond. ’Tis the tomb of 
the Rev. Peyton Lee, former pastor of Gray- 
spire. This costly monument was erected by 
the members and friends of the “ congregation, 
to the memory of one who served them so faith- 
fully for eight years ! ” 

The age of the Rev. Peyton Lee as recorded 
on the stone was thirty-seven years. Dr. Ran- 
dolph adjusts his glasses, and reads the words 
his memory holds, and has held for many years. 
“ Thirty-seven years ; yes, ’tis best to die young, 
I suspect,” he murmurs, as, retracing his steps, 
he enters the cottage door. 

Now it chanced that the mellow autumn sun- 
light that played so recklessly with Dr. Ran- 


MOSSES , OLD AND DRY. 115 

dolph’s silver locks, as lie paced up and down 
in the churchyard at Grayspire, darted in rich 
golden shafts over in the road before mentioned, 
and nestled down in cosy contentment upon a 
basket of apples, which Richard Grant was 
taking to Mrs. Randolph ; fresh, sweet apples 
from the low-branched trees that stood in the 
orchard of Clover-bloom Farm. 

“ I wonder what’s the matter with doctor ? He 
looks kind o’ down ; ’pears like he’s troubled ’bout 
something.” Richard mused on, until, reaching 
the cottage drive, he paused to lift the basket 
with its generous plenty, to its home in Mrs. 
Randolph’s pantry. 

“ Mother,” said Richard, upon his return, “ I 
guess you had better go to town to-morrow; 
there’s some trouble brewing over there.” 

“ There’s trouble in every town, son, more 
or less ; but what is the matter, did you 
hear ? ” 

And Mother Grant let the knitting rest quietly 


116 


PANSY STORIES. 


in her lap as she looked in her son’s honest 
face. 

“Well, I could not. make much out of it, 
because I got mad — yes, I did, mother, so don’t 
look at me as though I had broken all the com- 
mandments. I tell you it’s enough to make a 
saint mad to hear them folks talk. When I left 
Dr. Randolph’s I went down to Jim Smith’s 
store to get your yarn, and leave the butter. I 
felt there was something out of sorts at the cot- 
tage, altho’ I saw no one but Rose Randolph 
when I left the apples, so I just said when I 
handed Jim the butter, ‘ What news in town ? 
anybody dead or sick ? I see the parson walk- 
ing in the graveyard looking mighty sober.’ 

“‘You’ve not been in town lately, or you 
would know for yourself all I can tell you. 
News ! I should think there is news.’ 

“ So, Jim commenced, and before he finished 
I was mad, and I don’t know what I said, and 
remember very little of what Jim told me, save 


MOSSES, OLD AND DRY. 


117 


this, that the members of Grayspire church have 
asked Dr. Randolph to go away ; they want a 
young man in his place.” 

“ Ah, you are mistaken, dear, it can’t be true ! 
Why, such a thing would break the doctor’s 
heart.” 

“ Much they care about hearts, I’m thinking, 
unless it be a few of those old maids want a 
single man hoping he’ll lose his heart to them — 
and a man can’t marry all of ’em, so there 
would be the mischief to pay, if they get a 
young man ! ” 

“ Don’t talk so.” 

“Well, mother, to think of insulting a man 
like Dr. Randolph is enough to try one’s temper ; 
I’m surprised you take it so cool.” 

“ I’m deeply grieved, my son, most deeply 
grieved ; I must go to the cottage this evening, 
they are in trouble — they need their friends.” 

Reader, do you know a “ Mother Grant ? ” 
I’m sorry if you do not ; these sweet women of 


118 


PANSY STORIES. 


quiet ways, gentle touch, low-voiced and tender. 
I wonder, sometimes, if, the doors of Heaven 
being left ajar, they have not, wandering out, 
become entangled in the scenes of this lower 
world. I’m glad if they have. 

What did “ Mother Grant ” find at Grayspire 
cottage ? 

She found a once joyous home, ruined; she 
found a family about to be scattered ; she found a 
good, holy man, whom God had called to preach 
His word, silenced. There had been a meet- 
ing of the “ members,” and one Peter Change- 
able had been appointed to deliver a letter signed 
by a number of Dr. Randolph’s friends (?) 
which stated “ that in view of the increasing 
years of the pastor, and in view of the growing 
work of the church, and in view of their duty 
to the interests of the church, as members, etc., 
it would be better for Dr. Randolph to remove 
himself to a quiet home somewhere, and let them 
call a young, active, live man to fill his place.” 


MOSSES , OLD AND DRY. 119 

When asked what was the objection to Dr. 
Randolph, they could not name it : one honest 
man did say, “ I guess we’ve had him long 
enough — truth is, we want somebody else ; he's 
wore out ! ” It was astonishing how many ex- 
cuses they gave, some saying : “ He limps a 
little in his left foot ; ” “ He talks too much to 
Mrs. Smith, and never comes, to my house ; ” and 
“ I did hear that he let Rose Randolph stay 
during the dancing at Lawyer Gray’s party.” 
u Then his voice has a crack in it, and he is 
losing his teeth.” But the reason was plain 
enough under all this covering of excuses. 
They wanted a new , a young man. 

So, walking in the autumnal glories of this 
afternoon, do you wonder, that he, deeply 
grieved, and heart-weary of words, deemed it 
best that a man should die in the midst of his 
labors ? Had he not come to Grayspire when 
in the strength of young manhood ? had he not 
labored for the interest of these people, giving 


120 


PANSY STOBIES. 


his time, his strength, his means, for their good ? 
Had not this church which cost so much of 
strength and nerve-power, been purchased by 
the blood of his heart — his brain ? 

And where would he go? If too old for 
Grayspire, then he must be too old for any 
work, and if too old to work, why feel the long- 
ing in his heart, to be about his Master’s work? 
Why feel the magnetic touch of an energy that 
must find expression in the calling of his life ? 
God would lead, and God did lead 

Out from Grayspire, away from the church, — 
the people he had loved and served, — off in a 
far-away state he found rest in a little nook he 
prepared for himself. But the arrow was in his 
heart — he had received his death-wound. 

Going to Grayspire to-day, those who re- 
member the history of the church will tell you 
that they did get a young minister, and, some- 
how, although he was all they could wish, still he 
had no experience. In short, he was not in any 


MOSSES , OLD AND DRY. 121 

way like the doctor ; that things went down, 
seemed blighted, after Dr. Randolph left ; that 
the church had never been the same ! And as 
the seasons came and went — Spring with her 
garland of blossoms ; Summer with her wealth 
of roses ; Autumn with her golden tresses and 
lap full of fruit, and Winter with snow cap and 
ice-bordered garments, Dr. Randolph bowed 
himself down under the pain of his death-wound, 
which he bore so bravely that none but the 
closest friends ever dreamed of it, until, in the 
midst of those who loved him, in the home, the 
little home of his own seeking, in the stillness 
of the holy hour, “ He was not, for God took 
him.” 


AUNT JO’S STORY. 


This was not her real name ; but we children 
had been reading Miss Alcott’s Little Women , 
and had determined to call Aunt Virge, “ Jo,” 
because she resembled Jo, even in her attention 
to her elderly aunt, for whom she had gone on 
the morning our story opens. 

We were at grandma’s. By “ we ” I mean 
Olive, Anna, Lena, Eleanor, and Carlton, who 
were grandma’s grandchildren ; and grandma is 
just the dearest old lady in the world to put up 
with such noisy, romping children as we are. 
But I started to tell Aunt Jo’s story, so I must 
first relate how she came to tell us the stor}^ at 
all ; then I’ll get Aunt Jo to write you the 

story as she told it to us. 

122 


AUNT JO'S STORY. 


123 


As I said, we were at grandma’s. A big 
house over a hundred years old ; a great stone 
house, with a garret that ran oyer every room 
on the second floor, with big windows opening 
for all the world like big eyes, from four gables. 
It’s not a bit of use to say we loved this big 
playroom, because every child knows all about 
it, better than I can tell. Close by one of these 
windows stood Aunt Jo’s trunk ; and it was 
while looking over its contents that she related 
the following story : 

“Once upon a time there lived in a frame 
summer-house, on the island so noted during 
the late war, which lies in the soft embrace of 
the Atlantic, not very far from the city of 
Charleston, S. C., a clergyman and his family 
who had come over to Sullivan’s Island in order 
that he and his loved ones might escape the 
yellow fever that raged in the city close by. 
All this happened years ago when I was a very 
small child ; but it seems fresh enough as I look 


124 


PANSY STORIES. 


back. It was 44 before the war,” as the southern 
people say, and mother and I had gone on a 
visit to her brother, the Rev. Daniel Evans ; so, 
as he was the gentleman who had removed to 
the island, mother and I were duly installed 
in the quaint old home of which I told you. 
What a glorious place that island was, with the 
dancing waves around, beating their white hearts 
upon the sands of the hard beaches, and the 
great rocks running far out in the sea, with 
their crown of tiny pink shells gleaming upon 
their brows where the waters had left the im- 
press of their kisses as they surged in and over 
the land ! One day we had been out for hours, 
my cousin and I, when, glancing up, we saw 
a man approaching. Seeing our difficulty in 
removing the pink shells from the rocks, he 
offered to gather them with the aid of his pen- 
knife ; and I tell you we were delighted, for soon 
our baskets were full of the dear little pink 
beauties. We had gathered pretty close to the 


AUNT JO'S STORY . 


125 


stranger by this time, for he was an agreeable 
man, when, in the midst of his remarks, he men- 
tioned the fact that he had just recovered from 
the yellow fever, and had that morning come 
over from Charleston. I don’t know what he 
could have thought of us, but my four cousins 
and I dropped our baskets and ran from him as 
though a bear had been after us. I looked back 
after we had gone a little way, and there he 
stood leaning against the rocks, laughing as 
though his life depended upon it. 

“ I suspect he told his friends over in the city 
how he frightened us ; but you may rest assured 
we told no one of having met him. Mattie, my 
eldest cousin, said it would do no good, and 
would only be the means of keeping us from 
the rocks if mother and Uncle Daniel knew of 
our adventure. So when the gentleman had 
gone, we went back for our baskets, and never 
said a word to even Kittie about it, and this was 
being wonderfully silent on the subject, because 


126 


PANSY STORIES. 


we told Kittie everything, she being our old 
black nurse. 

44 One thing Kittie had told us, that she never 
told any one, and that was that Ocean View 
Cottage was haunted! 

44 Every dark night when the wind came in 
strong from the sea, she heard a moaning sound 
through the quarter (that was the name given 
the house where the servants slept), and a great 
tramp, tramp through the passage. 

“ Now, we had been told by our parents, that 
there were no sucli things as ghosts and haunted 
houses ; but here was one, and Kittie knew. 

u 4 Why, bress yo’ soul, honey chile, I’s a’most 
teched ’em. Feared ! What I feared ob ? ’ 

“ 4 But, Kittie, you might be killed,’ we cried. 
4 Do let us tell some one and get help.’ 

44 Carlton said he would sit up the next dark 
night and see for himself. 

44 One morning Kittie whispered as we went 
through the kitchen, 4 I’s seed de ghost an’ 


AUNT JO'S STORY. 


127 


he’s black as de debil. Hesh, I can’t tell any 
mo’, de madam am cornin’.’ And we had to pass 
out without hearing the details. 

“ So we went on to the beach to turn over our 
sand-biscuits that we had left in the sun of yes- 
terday to bake. 

“ How we wished that a big wind would come 
up from the sea that night, and that the ghost 
would come for sure, and that all hands at the 
cottage might see it ! 

“ It was a sultry day. The waters rushed out 
to the great waves tossing in the broad track of 
the ocean ; the sky was like brass. A dead 
calm, such a calm that far-off voices sounded 
close. And still the sun shone on ; and the 
waves rushed out ; and the air grew hotter, and 
voices seemed closer ; and the little island seemed 
almost ready to dip its head in the big waters to 
get a cool breath. 

“ Down at the fort, where we were all the after- 
noon, the old parrot had screamed, ‘It’s very 


128 


PANSY STORIES . 


hot, we’ll have a storm ; it’s very hot indeed,’ 
and as we scrambled up the steps, before tea, 
Carlton said, 4 Look out for the ghost to-night .’ 

44 Uncle Daniel sat with us on the porch until 
the big moon came up out of the water that 
evening. It was too warm to think of sleep. 

44 With the moon came a wind, and under the 
full flood of moonlight, sailed an inky black 
cloud that soon put out all brightness and em- 
braced the little island in its great strong arms, 
and with its giant hands hurled the great waves 
back from the sea, on and on, till they rolled 
like iron bolts along the shore. Then a dash- 
ing rain fell, and the sea rose higher and higher, 
and the thunder groaned and moaned and 
crashed, and the waves came dangerously nearer 
all the time. 

44 Uncle had gathered us all around him in the 
drawing-room, which was on the second floor ; 
and we were a frightened company, I tell you, 
when, above the roar of the storm we heard 


AUNT JUS STORY. 


129 


Kittie’s cry, and before we could move, there 
Kittie stood, the picture of fear. 

“ 4 Lord hab massy on me. De debit is arter 
me,’ and then she fell in a great heap at uncle’s 
feet. Of course the grown people thought 
Kittie’s fright was caused by the storm, but 
we knew she had seen the ghost ! 

“ Just while we were wondering what we should 
do, Kittie came to herself, and, with a grasp at 
uncle’s hand, cried : 4 Come long wid Kittie, 
till she show you whar de debil is hidin ob 
hisself.’ As we followed, you could almost 
imagine Kittie the 4 ghost,’ for she wore an 
abandoned night-wrapper, of my aunt’s, that 
enveloped her in its ample folds, and lay in 
great heaps of white on the floor about her — 
aunt being tall, and Kittie short. On we 
marched, while the storm without died in a 
sudden burst of moaning wind. 

44 It seemed that Kittie had just commenced 

to say her prayers, when she heard a thump, 
9 


130 


PANSY STORIES. 


thump, thump, behind her, and looking around, 
she saw a big black form, with great fiery eyes, 
coming right after her. 4 He’s in dis room 
whar I seed him,’ she insisted ; but we looked 
all around, finding nothing. Just as we were 
about giving up the search, Carlton came up to 
his father in a very mysterious manner, holding 
something in his hand. 4 Da, now, I knowed it 
all time, Kittie neber mistake de debil in her 
life — knowed him ebery time, sartain sho’.’ 

“ But Carlton and uncle remained very mys- 
terious for a long time. He and uncle left us 
without a word 4 to make sure of something,’ 
aunt said. So, we waited as patient as we 
could, for their return. 

44 4 We have found the ghost,’ they said, and, 
as the storm was over, and the moon shining 
clear and full, we insisted upon seeing for our- 
selves. 

“Uncle said it was the best to go look, 
although he was afraid for the ghost to see Kit- 


AUNT JUS STORY. 


131 


tie again. But we followed Carlton, who took 
us out in the yard, where, close to the porch, 
stood the ghost ! 

“ And what do you think it was ? Why, an 
old horse that went where he pleased. Carlton 
had found his shoe, and this was the mysterious 
something that led to the finding of Kittie’s 
ghost.” 


A DAUGHTER OF THE) MANSE. 


He who lingers over the scarlet and gold, the 
crimson and purple, of hothouse blooms, will 
not care for the modest white violet, the fra- 
grance of whose life forms so significant an ele- 
ment in the following pages. But, to one who 
»is weary of life’s high colors, its tragic endings, 
the pale beauty of my wayside darling will be 
as a star ’midst midnight darkness, vivid, pure, 
sweet and fresh with the serene atmosphere of 
heaven. It is with these few words that I in- 
troduce you to Mildred Heath, who will tell 
the story in her own words : 

“ There once lived in Brunkstone Manse a 
quietly elegant clergyman named St. John 

Mortimore. That he was a just, a pure, a good 
132 


A DAUGHTER OF THE MANSE. 


133 


man no one ever questioned ; but that he was a 
singular, that he was a keep-to-himself man, 
every one knew to be a fact. That he was a 
loving, devoted, unselfish, large-hearted man 
was best known by the inmates of Brunkstone 
Manse. Looking back from my present upon 
those quiet days, I can more justly appreciate 
the greatness of this quietly elegant man, who 
was my father, in a sacred use of the word. 

“ And Brunkstone Manse ! What a grand 
place it was ! First of all were the great trees, 
whose branches swept over the broad floor of 
the porch in such mystic shadows when the 
moonlight danced in their wake. I can, in fancy, 
see my little white kitten fly like a flash of light 
up into the dark shadows of the high branches, 
and hear the plaintive ‘ mew, mew,’ as she 
watched me in my low chair beneath. So real 
it seems that I look around for my father’s 
helping hand, rescuing Snowball as she comes 
falteringly down the tree. 


134 


PANSY STORIES. 


“ But it is dangerous for an old lady to get 
tangled ’midst tears in backward glances ; dan- 
gerous for her heart, which is tender, — danger- 
ous for the telling of the story. 

“ I’ll begin again : 

“ I was but a year old when my mother died, 
so I do not remember the sweet young face 
whose image graced the nook in my father’s 
study, just over above his desk. But I did not 
suffer for care, as Aunt Constance, my father’s 
sister, took charge of the manse, my father and 
me. She must have come during my mother’s 
illness. At any rate, from my first knowledge 
of Brunkstone, I find remembrances of her. 
That they are sweet and precious I leave to 
these pages to whisper. 

“ The kitchen at Brunkstone was a large, old- 
fashioned one, where the shadows were so dense 
in the twilight, I would imagine all sorts of 
things were peopling the dark corners ; but it 
was my delight to sit in the evening close up to 


A DAUGHTER OF THE MANSE. 


135 


the open fire, with my chair drawn to Phillips’, 
and listen to the stories which, if father or Aunt 
Constance had known were so filled with witches , 
I would not have been allowed to listen to at 
all. 

“ I believe I loved even the nails that shone 
as silver in the plank floor, burnished by con- 
stant use and constant cleaning. And from the 
time Phillips gave me the two ‘orphan chick- 
ens’ to care for, to the day I, as a young 
woman, left Brunkstone for my own home, I 
loved the old kitchen, the ghost-stories — Phillips 
herself. And I was not a good child. Ah, no ! 
Many times, when beyond the control of Aunt 
Constance, my father would talk in his earnest 
way to me, while he sat in the leather-covered 
chair, holding me in his arms and glancing up 
at the spiritual face of my mother’s portrait;, 
after which talks I did try to be a better child, 
and longed so sincerely that I could grow like 
my mother, whom my father loved, even in 


136 


PANSY STORIES. 


death, more and more as the years thickened 
over the mound in Brunkstone churchyard. 

“ At last the days of childhood were to know 
a change. As a flower tenderly cared for I had 
been for the past seven years ; but now I was to 
go to school. I was pretty well advanced for 
my years, for in that sheltered arm-chair of my 
father’s I had handled many quaint books, 
while my dear, patient parent endeavored to be 
both a mother and a father to his child. 

“ I know now that the influence of that time 
impressed all the after years for good. Holy, 
blissful years ! 

• “ 4 My little girl needs friends,’ father said, 
and I was free to invite some choice children 
whom Aunt Constance liked, into the retired 
sweetness of the manse. 

“ The school was a mile from our home, and, 
one day, as I stood with my books in hand wait- 
ing for the shower to slacken, I heard a pleasant 
voice call, 4 I’ll take you home, Mildred,’ and, 


A DAUGHTER OF THE MANSE . 137 

looking around, I saw Faith Tennant and her 
brother in a carriage waiting for me. I knew 
Faith, but this brother I did not know, and I 
hated big boys, so I said I believed I would 
wait ; they would send for me from home. By 
this time Faith’s brother was by my side, and, 
as he took my hand, I trembled all over with 
fear. 

“ 4 Why, little girl,’ he said, 4 1 would not hurt 
you for the world. Come, don’t be afraid ; let 
me carry you to the carriage. It will save 
much trouble if you go with us.’ 

44 So I went ; but I did not say a word until I 
saw my father, who thanked the half-grown 
boy, whom we called, for want of a better name, 
‘Faith’s brother.’ 

44 How the household laughed when I told 
them of my fear in trusting Howard. Aunt 
Constance said she would trust him, if for 
nothing else but the clear, honest laugh he had, 
and father remarked, 4 He’s just like his father ; ’ 


138 


PANSY STORIES. 


but, noticing Aunt Constance had turned from 
him, he remained silent, stroking my head as I 
nestled closer to his broad, loving breast. 

“ Thus my life passed ; the beautiful sheltered 
years of my childhood. Aunt Constance moved 
through the house in her quiet way, dispensing 
blessings ; my father, ever generous, ever mind- 
ful of our happiness ; and Phillips, by no means 
the least element in our home-blessings, made 
domestic life a picture of enduring brightness. 

“ There were the usual services on Sabbath to 
attend ; the usual weekly and monthly meetings 
of the church ; an occasional surprise party 
through the year, and my school duties ; thus 
our lives moved in time-worn grooves until the 
monotony was broken by the arrival of my 
cousin, Hope Erwine, who was my cousin in 
name only, she being related distantly to my 
mother. To Aunt Constance and my father 
she was no relation at all ; but when the news 
of the death of her parents reached us, father 


A DAUGHTER OF THE MANSE. 139 

went for the little Hope, offering her a home 
with him. 

“ She was a pale slender girl, with large brown 
eyes that looked through you. I remember 
Phillips saying the morning after she came, 

“ 4 No use telling anything but the truth to 
Miss Hope ; she sees right in your head.’ 

“ Hope Irwine was fifteen when she came 
among us, being several years my senior. People 
said she resembled my mother. That she was 
beautiful I knew full well. She had a low, 
sweet voice, so tender . when speaking of those 
she loved, that before I knew the tears would 
start to my eyes, and the touch of her hand made 
my heart throb with delight ; in a word, hers was 
a strong, magnetic nature, and by grace of soul 
calculated to bring a wealth of joy to those with 
whom she came in contact. 

“ She had graduated from one of the most cele- 
brated schools, and was generously educated. 
But my father took her in hand 4 to finish her 


140 


PANSY STORIES. 


off,’ he said, 4 since she had a mind for study ; ’ 
and daily I found Hope in the room devoted to 
my father’s use as a study, learning some diffi- 
cult things I deemed it nonsense for a girl to 
know. 

44 4 I’m thinking of being a teacher some day,’ 
Hope said to me one day when I questioned 
her about her studies, 4 and you see it is very 
necessary that I should know these things.’ 

44 4 What a nice thing it is to have Hope with 
us ! ’ Aunt Constance remarked one morning at 
the breakfast-table. 

44 4 Yes,’ answered my father, 4 she is a daugh- 
ter of the manse now,’ and from then we called 
her 4 a daughter of the manse,’ a name none 
ever had cause to regret having given her. I 
never liked going to see sick people, but Hope 
seemed in her element when arranging pillows, 
reading to invalids, and making little delicacies 
wherewith to tempt them to eat. It made it 
very nice having Hope. In time she took the 


A DAUGHTER OF THE MANSE. 


141 


organ in the church, and did the most of the 
singing, and such a voice ! Old Mr. Smith said, 
‘’Peared to him like a leetle fluttering bird 
sometimes, it got down so quiet-like, and low, 
you could a’most touch it.’ O the matchless 
charm of the human voice ! 

And how I loved her ! If there was trouble 
at school — lessons difficult — Hope helped me, 
casting the light of her beautiful presence, her 
magnetic strength over my way, and the clouds 
lifted, my sky became clear once more. 

“ 4 Don’t fret over things, hut go to work, Mil- 
dred,’ she said so often. 1 Overcome the diffi- 
culty yourself. I will put you in the way of 
doing it, but you^ will not forget so soon if you 
have a little trouble and surmount it by your 
own patient endeavor.’ 

“ 4 Were you, when a little girl, like me? ’ 1 
asked one evening as we sat by the open lire in 
aunt’s room, just before tea. 

44 4 Why do you ask ? ’ 


142 


PANSY STORIES. 


“ ‘ Because I would like to know what has 
made you so different from other people,’ I an- 
swered. ‘ Now I get mad so often — if Phillips 
won’t let me have her brightest tin cup when I 
want water ; if Aunt Constance won’t let me 
wear the dress I like ; if father won’t let me 
have all the money I want, and if you go to 
preaching, when I want you to do my sums I ’ 

“ Quietly Hope held my hand in hers for a 
second or two, when, drawing me closer to her, 
she said, 4 No, darling, I was not always as you 
find me; I think I must have been a very way- 
ward child, but,’ looking down upon the folds 
of her black drapery she resumed, 4 this shadow 
fell upon me, and it has taught me many les- 
sons, among which is that of tenderness ; and 
then haying the loved ones gone keeps my heart 
on heavenly things ; my treasures are there, my 
home is there ! ’ And then her tears fell over 
my face as I kissed her, and when the tea-bell 
called us down, I surprised every one by kissing 


A DAUGHTER OF THE MANSE. 


143 


my father, with both arms about his dear neck, 
before I would take my seat ; try as I would I 
could not help thinking, what if it had been my 
father who had died ! But no one knew my 
heart questionings, attributing my action to a 
sudden fancy. 

“ Somehow after that talk Hope seemed differ- 
ent in my eyes. There was a rare sweetness 
about her quite apart from the grace with which 
I had in fancy clothed her. 

“ Day by day I watched Hope’s face ; the soul 
was its charm. I know that now, but as a child 
it puzzled me to know what constituted the 
brightness of her countenance. 

“ Hope Irwine’s was a beautiful soul ! 

“About this time Aunt Constance’s health, 
which had never been strong, gave way. All 
unmindful of the great change approaching, I 
had gone with a number of young friends to a 
tea-party in the neighborhood, given to one of 
Dr. Englewood’s daughters upon her sixteenth 


144 


PANSY STORIES. 


birthday, Aunt Constance herself helping with 
the preparations consequent upon my going. 
Hope, though invited, would not go. 

44 In the midst of the pleasure, soon after the re- 
freshments had been served, Howard Tennant, 
a young gentleman by this time, came quietly to 
my side, saying, 4 A servant is waiting to see 
you, little girl,’ and leading through the 
crowd to the open doorway, he waited till the 
man delivered his message, which was, 4 Come 
home, Aunt Constance is ill ; ’ signed 4 Hope.’ 

44 4 I’ll take you,’ Mr. Tennant said, as I 
hurried from the door, and I was*' glad enough 
to accept his offer. 

44 How still the house seemed ! the house I 
had left but a few hours ago, with the echo of 
Hope’s voice ringing after me as she bade me 
4 enjoy myself, and not worry.’ Alas, alas, the 
stillness was that unmistakable stillness that 
the Death angel ever breathes ! 

“Hope met me. The severe pain in the 


A DAUGHTER OF THE MANSE. 


145 


heart had come on soon after I left,’ she said. 
Brought on, I ever believed, by the excitement 
I caused in leaving for the party. 

“Dear Aunt Constance ! On her breast, upon 
a tiny gold chain, we found a plain gold ring ; in- 
side were engraved her name, and that of Howard 
Tennant. Hope said, 4 This is all too sacred to 
touch.’ So, we left it about the beautiful neck, 
folded down upon the loyal heart, under the 
drapery that hid it from view. 

“ The evening after we had placed her body in 
the grave, father told us of the engagement 
made with Howard Tennant’s father in Aunt 
Constance’s girlhood, which was broken because 
she thought it her duty to care for her father 
after her mother’s death. 

“ What an influence that quiet life had ex- 
erted ! There were tears in Howard Tennant’s 
eyes when I related to him the early engage- 
ment of his father with my Aunt Constance. 

“ 4 Both are gone where tangled pathways un- 
10 


146 


PANSY STORIES. 


wind and grow plain and smooth/ he said ; 
and we walked out beside the two graves, one 
old and low, the other fresh and green 
with a wealth of blooming flowers upon its 
breast. ' 

“ How we missed Aunt Constance ! In a 
thousand ways we missed her, as Hope and I 
undertook the care of the manse. But the days 
and weeks and months passed by, and grad- 
ually we learned that God leads us through 
many tear-blinding ways, in teaching us how to 
live. And I think when these lessons are per- 
fectly learned, as they were in the life of Aunt 
Constance, He takes us home to Him. 

“ Hope was twenty ; Hope was beautiful ! and 
about the time of which I am telling my father 
was just thirty-nine. Was it a wonder that, 
watching the unfolding of this pure white 
violet, the man’s heart was touched with the 
holy fire of love? Although but sixteen at 
this time myself, still, I felt the approach of 


A DAUGHTER OF THE MANSE. 


147 


something very pure, something uplifting, some- 
thing very sacred, and I was not surprised 
when, one twilight hour, my father called me 
to him in the study, and seating himself in the 
old arm-chair, holding me in his arms as in the 
dear old days, told me of his love for Hope. 
And with my head buried in the soft warmth 
of his flowing beard I asked, 4 And you’ll love 
me all the same ? ’ 

44 4 All the same, my daughter,’ he replied, and 
later on Hope found us, and as the moonlight 
flooded the room, my father, resting one hand 
upon Hope’s shining golden hair, and the 
other upon my restless wayward head, for I 
knelt at his side, said, 4 Unto Him who giveth 
unto us all precious gifts, let us give thanks.’ 
And that evening’s prayer was too full of 
heaven’s holiness, to leave aught but purity in 
our hearts — our lives. 

44 4 Let us have a marriage,’ Hope said, 
when I insisted upon a large wedding, and a 


148 


PANSY STORIES . 


marriage it was. Right there in the old study, 
in the presence of a few warm friends, Hope 
Irwine became Hope Mortimore. 

“There was no visit made to any distant 
place. 4 Let us keep right along,’ Hope said, 
4 just we three as we have been doing ! ’ And 
my father said, 4 It shall be as she wishes, 
she has been Hope to us all along.’ 

44 Brunkstone Manse grew beautiful under 
Hope’s magic sway, and my father wore a 
smile the former years had never brought, and 
I do not think I should ever have left it until 
death called, had not Howard Tennant persuaded 
me that Mildred Tennant was a sweeter name 
than Mildred Heath Mortimore.” 


NELL’S EASTER. 


Nell Grafton was our cousin. Her parents 
were dead ; and she came from her far-off home 
in the West to live with us, my mother being 
her aunt. 

I remember the day she came perfectly, al- 
though the mists of many years hang thick 
between. 

Father said there were enough children in the 
house, without any more ; but dear, patient 
mother answered : “We must not grow selfish.” 

It ended in Nell’s being one of us in very truth, 
however. 

She was a poor, dejected-looking child the 

morning father brought her from the depot; 

149 


150 


PANSY STORIES. 


and our hearts went out to her all the sooner, 
because of this, I imagine. 

Nell Grafton made our number — just six 
children in all. Being nearer my age, we be- 
came famous friends from the first of her coming. 
It seemed a little odd to us, haying a sister old 
enough to join in our sports, and we four boys 
enjoyed the novelty, while baby sister Low 
crowed with delight whenever Nell came near 
her. Our home was in the center of a busy 
little town, but mother had brought a number 
of chickens from the farm with her when we 
moved, and we children had lots of fun finding 
eggs in the barn after school-hours and in the 
bright summer days. To each of us mother had 
given a hen, and we were to have all the eggs 
we wanted. After Nell had been with us a few 
days I asked if she might not have a hen, too ; 
but I found that mother had given her one the 
day she came — “ just to clieer her up a little,” 
she told me. 


NELL'S EASTER. 


151 


“Nell,” I asked one afternoon as we sat in the 
straw close by the row of nests, “ what are you 
going to do with the eggs your hen lays ? ” 

“ Sell them to Aunt Mary, as John and 
Charley do, I suspect.” 

“ Well, that would be better than to eat them 
as Ray does ; but what do you say to saving up 
for Easter — get a whole lot, you know. James 
Callon knows how to carve them, and we can 
color them. Say, will you do it?” 

“But what will I do with them then ? ” 

“ Bet on ’em and win a lot more ! ” I ex- 
plained. 

“ I don’t know how,” Nell said. 

“ Leave that to me, I’ll fix it.” What a time 
we had counting eggs ! Susan, the maid-of-all- 
work, said we were more trouble than we were 
worth. 

“ Nell,” I said one morning, as we started for 
school, “ I want to get a ball, and, if you don’t 
mind, I’ll sell my eggs and take the money and 


152 


PANSY STORIES. 


buy a new one. You can let me have a few of 
your eggs to win others with, and Susan says . 
if we have them carved she’ll buy some from us.” 

Nell looked solemn ; just the evening before, 
she had heard father tell us boys that we were 
to keep away from the base-ball ground — that 
he did not want a child of his mangled, or a 
nuisance. 

My cousin had been such a good companion, 
that I liked her almost as well as though she 
were a boy ; but now I feared she would spoil 
everything with her girlish fears. 

“ Have you told Aunt Mary ? ” 

“ Mother must not know. I tell you what, a 
boy must have some sport — I won’t play ball on 
the street, or bother old Mrs. Granger, either.” 

Mrs. Granger lived next to an open lot, at the 
extreme end of our town, and we boys had 
bothered her so with the abuse of her property 
and our noise, that she had almost concluded to 
move away. 


NELL'S EASTER. 


153 


“ I promise not to tell Aunt Mary, now,” Nell 
said. “ I’m going to think about it before I act.” 

I felt comforted as I knew I could trust 
her. 

If any boy, big or small, who is reading these 
words, can recall the fun he had saying up for 
Easter, he’ll know that I thought more about 
eggs than I did of anything else just then. 

One morning I went to Grantly’s for some 
sugar, and while there I saw a man come in 
from one of the farms with two buckets in his 
hands. When he uncovered them, I found these 
were filled with eggs. Going over to the counter 
where he stood, I watched him count them. 
We had been so careful with ours fearing we 
might break them ; but this tall clumsy-looking 
fellow took four in each hand at a time. I 
could hardly wait for the sugar, so anxious was 
I to get home and count my eggs, handling 
them as the farmer’s man had done. After 
giving the sugar to Susan, I called Nell, and we 


154 


PANSY STORIES. 


sat down in the store-room to count them 
over. 

“ Look, Nell, see how I can count ! I took 
two eggs in my hand at a time.” 

“ You’ll break them if you don’t mind.” 

“No I won’t, I know how. Four, eight, 
twelve, see, Nell, look how fast I count ! ” 

I became reckless, when, crash ! — the basket 
of eggs went to the floor, and my hands were 
golden from the precious fluid. 

Susan hearing the noise, came to my rescue. 

“ Now, now, what will your mother be after 
doing with you — pretty looking boy you is, to 
be sure, and me a thinking you was doing so 
well, you and your cousin, being as how you 
had been so quiet for this half hour. You 
stand still, till I clean you up a bit, don’t you 
take a step ; and I just cleaned this room out 
too. I told you you were more bother than all 
the eggs was worth : believe me now, don’t you? ” 

I think a tear or two came in my eyes when 


NELL'S EASTER. 


155 


I looked at my damaged hopes ; but I put them 
by hastily. Nell must not see me crying. 

All that time she had been trying to gather 
the shells together. “Percy, there are two 
dozen cracked ones, and I’ll ask Aunt Mary to 
buy them : she is going to have cake made this 
very morning,” and she ran off to ask mother. 

By the time she returned, Susan had me 
“looking like another boy,” she said. 

Mother allowed thirty cents for the “ cracked ” 
eggs. She said she could not pay as much for 
damaged goods, as she would for a perfect lot 
— “ and this is a forced sale ! ” she added. 

I put the thirty cents away, towards buying 
the ball. 

I wanted a good hard one, that would bear 
the “twist,” put on it, I told Nell; but she 
did not understand what I meant by the “ twist.” 

Poor little cousin looked troubled a few 
weeks later, when we were talking of Easter, 
and I asked her what was the matter. 


156 


PANSY STORIES. 


What a funny child she was, all fire and 
vim. 

“ Why, look here, Percy,” she said, “ I’ve been 
thinking, and somehow it came to me, that this 
betting game of yours, over the eggs, won’t do. 
Don’t you know its gambling? There’s the 
plain English for it ; no wonder you look fright- 
ened. I say it again, just as much gambling as 
though we used money, and Tm not going to do 
it. First thing you know, we’ll want to do 
things on a larger scale. Better stop and think, 
Percy Myers, you just give your baseball up ! ” 

“Nell, you are acting for all the world just 
like a girl. I’m ashamed of you ! ” 

But she remained firm. 

Well, I had thirty cents, I thought, and I 
would make more off of my eggs. I hoped to 
win. 

It was drawing very near to the Easter holi- 
days. 

Mother’s lily would be open very soon, and I 


NELL'S EASTER. 


157 


watched it quite impatiently, knowing she in- 
tended it for the church, and I marked the time 
as it passed, by the opening of the lily. 

I do not think I liked Nell, then ; I felt dis- 
appointed in her. 

Two more days and it would be Easter! 

It had been a stormy week, and this particu- 
lar night the wind blew great gusts. 

We were seated around the library fire, when 
John, my eldest brother came in, saying that 
Mrs. Granger’s house was on fire, and that 
father had sent him for buckets and blankets. 

Bells were ringing by this time, and every- 
thing was in great confusion. 

Poor old lady ! her home was nothing but a 
pile of ruins by the morning. The men could 
save only a few things for her, and were badly 
burned in doing this. 

The minister took Mrs. Granger to his manse, 
and his wife made the old lady very comfort- 
able ; but she had lost everything. 


158 


PANSY STORIES. 


Of course the town people would not allow 
the minister to do everything for her, and they 
were busy arranging for her comfort. 

Nell heard much talk about the affair, and 
the day before Easter Sunday, she came to me 
saying, “ I want your thirty cents, Percy ; I’ve 
sold my eggs, and I’m going to give the money 
to Mrs. Granger. Will you join me ? ” 

“ What good will thirty cents do ? ” 

“ You don’t know. Let the old lady attend 
to that,” Nell answered. 

When mother learned of our determination, 
she kissed Nell, and said much about her being 
a good girl, etc. ; but Nell told me she wished 
people would keep quiet, “because, I’m not 
good : why, Percy, I did not want to give my 
money up at all at first, but something kept 
saying, 4 Give the money to Mrs. Granger, give 
the money to Mrs. Granger ; ’ and I just had to 
do^ it, don’t you see ? ” 

But I thought Nell was most too good to live ! 


NELL'S EASTER. 


159 


Easter morning, mother gave us her lily to 
take, together with some other things she had 
placed in a basket, and kind Doctor Gray 
smiled, as we asked him, at the door of the 
manse, for Mrs. Granger. 

Nell placed the envelope in the old lady’s 
hand, saying, as she did so, “ This is our Easter 
gift, Percy’s and mine.” Then I gave her the 
growing lily, and the basket from mother, and 
Mrs. Granger kissed us, and the tears of love 
glistened like dew-drops on the waxen lily. 

I never knew so perfect an Easter ! 

To-day, my brave little cousin, in looking 
back, counts many Easters which have passed, 
for she stands in the joy of her young woman- 
hood. 

Whenever we meet, we talk of that Easter in 
the sweet long ago, and rejoice in its lasting 

4 

influence over our lives. 

Do you wonder that I named it “ Nell’s 
Easter ? ” 


DR. JOHN. 


It was Monday morning, and I had to sweep. 
I had been living at Roadside Cottage just 
eighteen years that morning, and for at least 
eight of these years I had been going through 
this sweeping process on each successive Mon- 
day as the weeks passed by. The little parlor 
was bright enough to please almost any one ; 
but I was weary of routine — I needed change of 
action. There were two spirits at work in my 
small body on this fresh June morning as I 
rolled the brown shades up from the narrow 
windows and looked out on the dewy freshness, 
for the rose-garden was a gorgeous sight, to the 
left of the cottage, and sent so pure a breath of 

sweetness in through the misty curtains of my 
160 


DR. JOHN. 


161 


discontent as to make me almost ashamed of 
the evil spirit that stood beside my good angel, 
bargaining for my soul. 

I pined for scenery. I hated shades at the 
windows simply, and longed for picturesque 
hangings of yellow, blue and gold satins, etc. 
It was a crucial time. Good and bad were 
battling, and my poor girlish heart, full of long- 
ings I could not define, was the battle-ground. 

I had finished sweeping, and was standing, 
dust-brush in hand, beside a bust of Dante — the 
one artistic ornament of the room — when my 
aunt entered hastily, saying, “ John has a letter ; 
our boarders will be here to-morrow.” 

Here was an end . to dreamings, for, as we 
kept but one servant, there would be work 
enough for all in order to be ready to receive 
these new people who were so shortly to increase 
our family to the number of five. 

It was a whirling time — a most delightful 

time, I thought. Anything was better than the 

11 


102 


PANSY STORIES. 


tiresome monotony of the uneventful days we 
had known. We had been living at Roadside 
ever since I could remember, and aunt had gone 
on her round of simple duties, with here and 
there a short break, in which she went to some 
relative’s to help in times of severe illness, when 
old Aunt Grace, our black blessing, took sole 
care of “ Marse John an’ de young un.” These 
breaks did not come often, and my cousin John 
grew to be a young man, with a limited practice 
in his home village, for he would be a physician, 
although my aunt held out most dismal pictures 
of future poverty to frighten him into something 
like a clerkship in the one big store of Mason- 
ville ; and I grew to be a discontented girl bor- 
dering on womanhood. 

John, or Dr. John, as every one called him, 
was my aunt’s stepson ; but no own son could 
have more faithfully guarded a dead father’s 
command than did he in the loving care of his 
mother. 


DR. JOHN. 


163 


“ I’m all she has,” he so often said, “ and I’m 
going to care for her right here in the little 
home where she is rooted.” 

I thought it a very foolish idea. If I were a 
man I would be something in the world, and not 
sit down to work among dull country folk. 
Sometimes I told Dr. John my opinion respect- 
ing him ; when he would toss back his straight 
black hair that 1 would fall down over his brow, 
and laugh a little nervous laugh, with a sadness 
in his eyes I could not read. 

“ Some men wander all about the world, and 
then return home to find that honest work could 
have been furnished without so much restless 
seeking. I shall waste no time in seeking, but 
do the duty nearest me.” 

There we lived — just we three — John attend- 
ing to his profession, which, with the help of 
my personal income — a few thousands left at the 
death of my parents to an only child — gave us 
shelter and many comforts ; but I craved luxuries. 


164 


PANSY STOBIES. 


Dr. John looked grieved, only a few weeks 
gone by, when I stood in the midst of June 
roses, out in the evening air, and said, “ I’m 
weary of everybody here. I wish I knew some 
nice people, like one reads of in books.” 

The next day there were long talks — private 
talks — with aunt, and at length I learned that 
Dr. John had thought best to take a patient or 
so to board in the same house , as he could treat 
them more to his satisfaction. 

“ No one must be disturbed,” he said, when I 
offered my room. “ The lady could have his 
room, and he would sleep in the office.” 

I took very little interest in the preparations, 
supposing there could be nothing to relieve my 
dullness in the fact that a sick lady and French 
maid would be within the cottage for at least 
four months. They had been abroad, but the 
lady, Mrs. Col. Fesenden, wanted to rest in 
Virginia, and when she learned that Dr. John 
would “ entertain her at Roadside,” she was 


DU. JOHN. 


165 


lavish in her expressions of gratitude, so Dr. 
John said, curling up the right side of his mus- 
tache as he did when pleased, which had become 
such a habit with him as to prove quite an index 
to the state of his emotions. 

Grace, I think, noticed this trick of Dr. John’s 
in more expressive language than either Aunt 
Jane or I could command. 

“No foolin’ dis child, honey, when I sees de 
boy a curlin’ dat soft right eend ob dem whis- 
kers, I knows de wliedder am fair; but when 
dat left side dat has a straight hang-down ob 
its own is jerked sabage-like, den I know de 
debil am to pay.” 

Amusing and absurd as it may seem, we grew 
to watch Dr. John’s mustache, or rather his 
mode of treatment of the same. I wonder how 
we would have done, had Dr. John been more 
like other people and less unique. 

Mrs. Col. Fesenden was a mild invalid, indeed. 
I could see nothing in the world of ailments the 


166 


PANSY STORIES. 


matter with her. She ate many times a day ; 
drank enough milk to make a well person ill ; 
and went on all kinds of excursions through the 
mountains, always insisting upon my company. 
More than once I found her watching me with 
a strange expression as we rested under the 
trees during the warm days, or sat talking to- 
gether in her room. I grew very fond of her. 
Somehow, she seemed different from most 
people. She belonged to the world I lived in 
when alone with my thoughts. In a word, she 
was elegant , and all about me was nice enough 
in its way; but faded, dull, and commonplace 
beside her and my imaginings. I wondered 
often if she ever had troubles like other people ; 
her voice was so low and sweet ; her temper so 
even; her words so gentle. Dr. John appeared 
pleased that I should be interested in his patient, 
and took great care that I should be with her 
much of the time. This surprised me, as seeing 
much of Mrs. Fesenden was not calculated to 


DR. JOHN. 


167 


make me enjoy our quiet ways, and my spoken 
discontent always made Dr. John stroke the 
wrong side of his mustache ! 

Mrs. Fesenden came in June, and all through 
the summer there was no end of pleasuring; 
the invalid (?) grew so strong that Dr. John 
laughingly remarked, “ The French maid had 
nothing to do but care for Nixy the pet dog.” 

I liked the elegance of Mrs. Fesenden ; but 
had to confess to a strong dislike for this French 
maid, and determined if ever I lived in the style 
I craved, I should not have a French maid ! It 
was inconvenient to say the least, to know that 
one’s every action was witnessed by a pair of 
piercing eyes, and one’s every word registered 
upon inquisitive ear-drums. No, I would not 
have a maid. But then I would not be an in- 
valid. Was Mrs. Fesenden an invalid? Dr. 
John looked grave when I asked him this ques- 
tion and refused to talk, so I gave the subject 
up, looking upon our boarder as a most interest- 


168 


PANSY STORIES. 


ing old lady — she was about sixty — and voting 
her the grand poem of Roadside ! Compared 
to her, how practical and rough our lives looked ! 
Dr. John, with his numerous ill old women and 
old men, young women and children ; aunt, 
with her perplexed, anxious face, going the 
round of domestic duties — I always hated do- 
mestic things, they seemed so doughy ; and I, 
with my impatient desire for things my life did 
not hold, having, I am sure, a half-starved expres- 
sion, as in imagination I reached after the with- 
held fruit of experience. 

Mrs. Fesenden could not have remarked this 
contrast, as she was pleased with us all, and so 
gentle toward Dr. John as to assure all who saw 
them together, or heard her low-toned remarks 
of commendation respecting him, of the firm, 
true friendship, existing between the two. 

Our family name was Smith. Yes. Com- 
monplace as it looks when written, common- 
place as it is when spoken, the name was Smith ! 


DR. JOHN. 


169 


It seemed to me all the Smiths must have con- 
gregated at Mason ville, since Aunt Jane married 
one, and my mother another. It did seem too 
bad for a man like Dr. John to belong to so 
numerous a family. John Smith, M. D., on the 
door of his unpretentious office, gave one no 
idea of the man behind the door. But what is 
in a name ? Then again every one called him 
Dr. John, and this name told much of his 
earnest matter-of-fact goodness. 

I should have been very happy at Roadside, 
but for this wearing spirit of discontentment, 
that pined for more liberal environments. Dear 
me ! as I think of all that followed, how liberal, 
how sweetly peaceful those very same environ- 
ments appear ! But I needed training, and 
Providence opened a barred and bolted door 
before me, and lo ! — but I must not anticipate. 

Masonville was a patient little town, it was 
so content with its being a village that no 
thought of ever being anything more ever 


170 


PANSY STORIES. 


intruded upon its contentment. The nearest 
railroad station was but six miles off — a great 
inconvenience in muddy weather, and a trial in 
dry ; but no one wanted his or her farm torn 
up, so the town had to be reached by stage. 
“ Almost a complete Star Route,” the mail- 
driver said, after floundering in the mud, “ For 
sure an’ how did I know but I’d go through to 
China, and strike anither planet.” — After these 
rainy times in the spring there would be a 
lively excitement over having the railroad built 
to Masonville ; but it always wore down as 
quickly as the roads wore smooth and dry, and 
there was no more said until the next year’s 
inconveniences brought about the same results. 

But it was a beautiful, restful, little place, if 
it was wearingly patient, and I wonder I grew 
up in its shelter without imbibing its atmosphere 
of peaceful contentment. I longed to drive 
those six miles to Grantly Station, and seat 
myself in the cars, and see the world! What 


BE. JOHN. 


171 


were green hills and mountains, streams and 
dainty blooms, and tender home-care, compared 
with the big world just beyond ! 

One of our enjoyments during the fall and 
winter evenings was Dr. John’s readings. He 
brought to these his brightest self, saving best 
books and papers, as one might sweetmeats, for 
the enjoyment of all. 

Not long since, for the cool September even- 
ings had sent us indoors for enjoyments, Dr. 
John had read to us from Eber’s Life of Alma 
Tadema, and I had reveled in the description of 
the gold room in the Tadema mansion ; over 
and over again, I heard the words repeat them- 
selves in the changing echoes of my imag- 
ination ; sometimes the echoes would ring 
louder from one, then from another of the 
beautiful sentences. Dr. John, seeing my 
flushed face the evening of the reading, read 
over again “ for Elizabeth’s ear,” these words : 
“ Over the wide entrance to this unique apart- 


172 


PANSY STORIES. 


ment, on each side of a beautiful rosette, is a 
semicircular arch, and these two arches, with 
the beam on which they rest, form two niches 
in which rare antique vases and other choice 
specimens of ancient pottery are arranged with 
picturesque abundance in apparent disorder. 
From them an ample curtain in Chinese silk, in 
shades of yellow, blue, and gold, hangs to the 
floor, which is made of ebony and maple. Along 
the wall runs a socle five feet high, of Byzantine 
design, above whose beautiful cornice is an ex- 
quisite miniature copy in ivory, upon an ebony 
background, of Phidias’ famous procession of 
mounted men, from the frieze of the Parthenon. 
With this exception, the eye, wherever it turns, 
sees nothing but glittering gold ; and the few 
dark pieces of furniture, as well as the large 
silver mixing-vessel, the bright-hued curtain, 
and the strange specimens of foreign art in the 
dark niches, often glow with magical reflected 
lights.” And he looked grave as he noticed 


DR. JOHN. 


173 


the tears in my eyes, expressive of my artistic 
appreciation. 

“After all is said,” Dr. John remarked as he 
closed the exquisite little book, “ Tadema says 
a good-bye in the last words of the book, that 
all of us may cherish when he exclaims to his 
friend : 

“ 4 Eber, the world is beautiful ! ”’ 

“ Yes,” replied Mrs. Fesenden, “and pretty 
much as we make it.” 

How could I make my life beautiful as this 
gold room ? 

Was it possible for me to possess such things ? 
Why, I had never seen anything nearly so beau- 
tiful. O that I might for one brief season revel 
in their midst ! 

Grace who had been listening at the door that 
stood partly open, asked with bated breath as 
Dr. John stopped reading : 

“ ’Is you bin readin’ ob de hebbenly kingdom, 
honey child ? ” 


174 


PANSY STORIES. 


And although I told her it was about a gold 
room belonging to a great painter, she went off 
wiping her eyes and singing low and softly : 

“ An’ I’ll walk de golden streets 
In de city ob de King. 

When I’s restin’ 'in his love. 

Bress de Lord.” 

As I said, the September evenings had driven 
us indoors, and these same September days with 
their hot fever-producing suns, had kept Dr. 
John very busy ; causing him to look weary as 
the month wore on, and the illness among the 
people increased. He had very little time for 
us now, and Mrs. Fesenden began to express 
fears for his health. Aunt Jane and I knew 
Dr. John too well to venture a remonstrance. 
Was he not the only physician in the place ? 
Must he let the people die? Well we knew 
this man. Dr. John became solicitous about 
Mrs. Fesenden, however, and the last of the 
month, when the fever was growing dangerous 


DR. JOHN. 


175 


in its rapid increase and fatality, he remarked 
in a tone of command as he left the breakfast 
table, “You must prepare to leave us, I can’t 
let you risk your health any longer.” 

I was not prepared for the dear old lady’s 
answer, however, and started with a glad sur- 
prise as she said in equally commanding tones, 
“ Elizabeth will return with me ! ” 

There was no refusal possible. Marie, the 
French maid, had left at the first appearance of 
the fever, and there was no one to accompany 
Mrs. Fesenden, Aunt Jane and Dr. John being 
so busy over the sick. 

I was ashamed of myself at being so glad at 
this turn of events. 

The Fesenden mansion was a few miles’ drive 
from Washington, so I should not be in the 
city after all, but I should be near this new 
world ! 

How grave Dr. John looked the morning he 
drove us to Grantly Station, every now and 


176 


PANSY STORIES . 


then turning to see that we were comfortable 
and to re-arrange the robe about my feet. 

After I had said good-bye to him on the plat- 
form, I remembered he had not kissed me, and 
my heart turned faint with apprehension lest he 
too might “ take the fever.” Not that my kiss 
would have protected him, but it was strange 
that he should leave me as a stranger, saying 
the same words to Mrs. Fesenden that he had' 
used to me. Then a homesick feeling possessed 
me, which had not asserted itself upon leaving 
Aunt Jane. Dr. John was so different from 
every one else. The car was moving ; outside 
by the window where we were seated I saw a 
tall form, Dr. John stroking his mustache, in a 
most, as Grace would put it, “sabage kind 
o’ way.” 

Mrs. Fesenden fell asleep soon after we started. 
The bustle of getting off had kept her wakeful 
the night before, and resting in the cushions she 
slept soundly. 


DR. JOHN. 


177 


I believe Aunt Jane and Dr. John were glad 
to have me from home ; partly from their 
anxiety respecting my health, and partly from 
their sorrow over my growing discontent. I sus- 
pect it was a relief to have me gone where both 
would be content to have me. Dr. John knew, of 
course, that Col. Fesenden was a very rich man 
and lived in luxury ; but I knew nothing save 
that I should be with Mrs. Fesenden for a length 
of time, and this being with her, a companion 
in her daily outings, etc., would be a joy beyond 
words to me. I felt positively wicked, as I 
realized how glad I was that the fever had 
come, and I had been sent away. 

In a wild fashion my thoughts flew through 
my brain, and I was not conscious that we were 
nearing Washington until I saw the white 
gleam of the Capitol building in the distance, 
and Mrs. Fesenden awoke, expressing surprise 
at me for not calling her long ago. 

A small carriage was in waiting at the depot, 
12 


178 


PANSY STORIES . 


and it was not long before we were home. The 
Colonel was in very bright spirits, I thought, 
as he met us just outside the door by the rose 
hedge, impressing me in our brief meeting with 
his superabundance of white hair, white mull 
worn about a large straw hat, white flannel coat 
and pants. His mustache must have been a 
pet, both ends, as they curled in much grace, 
seemingly alike. There was no need for a 
formal introduction. The Colonel had heard of 
me and I of him. He evidently viewed me as 
a child his wife had taken to pet, along with 
her little dog, from the way he handed us both 
out. Somehow it seemed strange that he had 
not been in the city to meet us. It was differ- 
ent from Dr. John’s way, But then, Dr. John 
was a young man and the Colonel quite old. 
This made the difference, for I found the old 
gentleman a most devoted husband — quite a 
lover where his wife was concerned. 

Seated in my room that evening, with its 


DR. JOHN. 


179 


matchless beauties of appointment, I wondered 
how any one could manage to be discontented 
there — everything was so richly beautiful. I 
wondered, would I ever be willing to leave it 
all and go home to Aunt Jane and Dr. John, to 
brown window shades and old black Grace: 
give up this grand poem for the dull prose of 
Roadside ? 

With these thoughts contending with the 
natural love I felt for those I had left, I fell 
asleep. When I awoke the birds were singing 
in their gilt cages by the window, and the sun 
was shining full and bright through the filmy 
lace curtains that held back the glare, giving to 
the room a soft white light. At first I won- 
dered where I could be, but memory soon as- 
serted itself, and I hastened to make my toilet, 
to meet Mrs. Fesenden and see more of this 
exquisite mode of living. 

I had been at Thorn Hill just one week and 
felt quite at home. Col. Fesenden had taken 


180 


PANSY STORIES. 


me into Washington several times, and I 
had seen all through the Capitol, and had 
been greatly amused at his descriptions of 
John Randolph, and the stories he told of 
many of the great men long dead, always end- 
ing up with the words, “But I tell you 
Dan was the best of all — old Dan — Daniel 
Webster .” 

Mrs. Fesenden was not so well as she had 
been at Roadside, and wore an anxious look 
quite foreign to her, or, rather, what I had 
known of her. As I said, I had been at Thorn 
Hill one week, and was feeling a joyous con- 
tentment I had never known, in the midst of 
this palace of material blessings. Everything 
heart could crave was there, brought together 
from all portions of the globe and lavished upon 
these two old people. 

“ How would you like to live here always, 
Elizabeth?” asked Mrs. Fesenden one evening, 
as we sat watching the harvest moon. 


DR. JOHN. 


181 


“I should like nothing half so well,” I an- 
swered. 

She smiled at me, a sad, wistful smile, then, 
placing her hand under my chin, thereby raising 
my head, bade me look at the great blackness of 
cloud about to fall over the face of the moon, 
like a curtain of gloom. 

“ That,” she said, “ is like unto life. When 
all is brilliantly beautiful, sin, in the form of 
some great blackness, blots out every joy, every 
hope.” 

Then she kissed me, calling me a “great, 
romantic girl,” and bade me “ sing her an old- 
time song.” 

A soft light was burning in the hall, which 
cast a mellow brightness in the room, sufficient 
for me to find the keys I needed for my simple 
accompaniment; so, seating myself at the in- 
strument, I sang these words : 


“ I cannot sing the old songs 
I sang long years ago, 


182 


PANSY STORIES. 


For heart and voice would fail me, 

And foolish tears would flow; 

For bygone hours come o’er my heart 
With each familiar strain : 

I cannot sing the old songs, 

Or dream those dreams again.” 

As I sang these last lines over, I distinctly 
heard a man’s voice singing with me, only in 
German : 


“ Nicht alte Lieder sing ich, 

Noch wie der traum die Traum.” 

The tones were rich and deep, hut sounded as 
though the singer was out in the open air. 

Mrs. Fesenden did not appear to have heard 
the voice, and I said nothing, continuing the 
song. At the close of each verse, where the 
last lines are repeated, I heard the same voice 
singing with me, only closer to the window, 
which, turning from the piano, I found open, 
while Mrs. Fesenden stood beside, half hid in 
the curtain. 

“ Who was singing with me ? ” I asked. 


DR. JOHN. 


183 


“ One of the servants, I suspect,” she an- 
swered. 44 That new man the Colonel has to 
attend the garden does not appear to know his 
place. I must see him about it.” 

But I noticed the white, pained look of her 
countenance as she gave emphatic orders that 
the house should be carefully locked, and ex- 
amined herself the windows and doors of the 
library before we retired, which the Colonel, 
who had come in by this time, pronounced 
44 quite an unnecessary procedure.” 

I could not sleep that night. I had that 
evening received a letter from Dr. John, saying 
aunt was not so well, and that old black Grace 
was down with the fever. I had been in quite 
a fever of anxious thought myself ever since the 
letter arrived. I knew I could be of use were 
I willing to give up my present pleasures and go 
where duty called. But how could I leave this 
new world, my beautiful world of new delights ? 

In the midst of these meditations, I distinctly 


184 


PANSY STORIES. 


heard a door open and close; then the sharp 
report of a pistol put an end to all inaction. I 
ran to Mrs. Fesenden’s room, calling loudly for 
help. In a few moments the house was a 
scene of wildest confusion. Servants were 
passing from room to room in rapid haste, 
flitting lights here and there. Mrs. Fesenden 
was on the bed in her room in a dead faint. 
The Colonel was below in the library. 

“ It will kill him,” I heard one of the men 
say, as I called for a maid to come help me with 
Mrs. Fesenden, who had roused a little under 
my exertions to restore her to consciousness; 
but oh, the very grief of her face! I shall 
never forget it. 

“ Where are they ? ” she asked. “ I’ll never 
rest till you find out.” 

I had quite lost sight of the evident trouble 
below stairs, in my consternation over Mrs. 
Fesenden’s condition. Yielding to her earnest 
request, I left Susan in charge, and, catching up 


DR. JOHN. 


185 


my tea-gown as I passed through my room, ran 
down the stairs to the library. 

“ This is no place for you, Miss Smith,” ex- 
claimed the Colonel. 

“ But I must have some explanation for Mrs. 
Fesenden; she is just out of a faint and will be 
ill if kept in suspense,” I answered. 

“ Yes, yes ; I’ll go with you. I see how it is 
— I see how it is,” and, glancing hastily around,, 
he took my arm in his, turning the key in the 
lock of the door as we passed through, and 
fastening the guard-chain. But before he could 
accomplish all this I had seen a man — a young 
man, with bloated face — bound hand and foot, 
in the Colonel’s arm-chair. 

At the door of my room, the Colonel asked if 
I was timid, assuring me that there was no need 
for alarm, and that he himself would see that 
Mrs. Fesenden was cared for. But, for all my 
assurances of bravery, he must have read the 
terror in my face which the memory of the 


186 


PANSY STORIES. 


bound man in the library had left, for he sent 
Susan to remain in my room all night. 

Of course I could not sleep, and no one 
knows how I longed for the morning to come, 
for it seemed the sunlight must scatter this 
terrible gloom. Could it not be that I had been 
dreaming ? 

But the morning light brought only a heavy 
fall of rain. Long before daybreak I heard 
noises in the hall below, and heavy footsteps, 
with clank of iron chains; then the closing of 
the great front door, and, down the drive, the 
rapid roll of wheels ; then all was quiet. 

Mrs. Fesenden was very ill. The explanation 
of the confusion was given in few words by the 
Colonel, when he returned from Washington 
about noon. 

A man had seen him receive quite a sum of 
money in the bank the day before, had followed 
him home, broken into the house, obtained the 
money, and, but for the wound from the 


DR. JOHN. 


187 


Colonel’s pistol, would have made good his 
escape, but was now safely cared for, where he 
could trouble no one. 

Mrs. Fesenden did not improve, and, several 
days later, the Colonel remarked that we had 
better close the house and go into the city for 
the winter. But I longed as I had never longed 
before for Roadside. I was homesick. There 
was a mysterious blight over everything con- 
nected with Thorn Hill. A misty veil of some 
intangible something I could not define hung 
down between me and the clear purity I must 
have to live. I was in a gilded prison. Who 
would liberate me ? I did not want to go to 
Washington. I wanted Roadside — just humble 
Roadside, and its unpretentious inmates. As I 
stood by the window looking out upon the rose- 
hedge, made vivid in the moonlight, the hall 
door closed gently, and I heard a step I knew so 
well. The next moment found me sheltered in 
Dr. John’s strong arms. 


188 


PANSY STORIES. 


But for the fever which was still in Mason- 
ville, we would have taken Mrs. Fesenden 
home with us, for I was not to be left behind. 
Dr. John had come for me, fearing his 
mother would be taxed too greatly in nursing 
Grace. 

“ There is no need of your being sick, Eliza- 
beth,” he said. “ You’ve only to be careful.” 

I cannot put in words his delight when he 
learned I wanted to go home. 

“ Clothed, and in her right mind,” I heard 
him whisper, as he bade Mrs. Fesenden good- 
bye, glancing happily at me. 

Dr. John’s one-horse carriage met us at 
Grantly, or, rather, it waited for us where he 
had left it, with a farmer near by ; and, in that 
six miles’ drive to Masonville, I learned how 
that all these years Dr. John’s heart had been 
mine to make glad or miserable, and I also 
learned a most surprising thing to me : that I, 
Elizabeth Smith, had loved Dr. John all my 


DR. JOHN. 


189 


life well enough to marry him and live always 
at Roadside. 

And, as the years went by, this love grew, out 
of much selfishness, purer and purer, and more 
suited for that spotless kingdom — that “ House 
not made with hands.” 

When I questioned Dr. John respecting the 
man I saw bound in the library, Mrs. Fesenden’s 
illness, etc., he answered : “ The man’s name 
is Herrick Fesenden. He is the only son of 
Colonel and Mrs. Fesenden, and learned to 
drink from using wine at his father’s table when 
a boy. He is now in an asylum for incurables, 
hopelessly insane .” 


“ RISTITOOTION.” 


It was the week before Christmas. And the 
busy streets of New York were filled somewhat 
fuller than usual ; and the store windows shone 
with a greater splendor ; and the noises were 
of an unwonted variety : while as the sun went 
down behind the clouds of vapor, tinging with 
them the smokes of a multitude of factories, etc., 
with his gold and crimson, and purple and rose- 
colors, the gleams of electric beauty, that sub- 
stituted his light, turned that which would 
have been night into day — a day of dazzling 
wildering magnificence. The dusky towers of 
the bridge vanished while, flashing from shore 
to shore, there glittered an arch of dancing stars ; 

and the colored lights of the ferry boats rocked 
190 


“ BISTITOOTION .” 


191 


in their changing bed beneath ; and one by one 
the piles of brick, of stone, and of ghostly 
marble, turned into palaces of gorgeous illumi- 
nation ; and the great and beautiful city wore 
her most joyous smile. ’Twas the week before 
Christmas, and the spirit Joy, born of Love, 
walked the streets, opened store doors, and 
invited one into the quiet retreats of shadowy 
church aisle. 

This fair spirit sprang lightly over the marble 
blocks adown Fifth Avenue, skipping in her 
bounding step the brown stone mansion that 
bore upon its silver-hinged massive door the 
name Van Arsdale. And yet that house invited 
entrance. The blocks of marble in that pave- 
ment differed from all of its companions ; the 
Roman arch of the inner door was wide and 
pleasing ; the hints of the accessories one caught 
from the windows — the graceful sweep of lace, 
the warm glow of crimson, the glinting of 
iridescent ornament — the ensemble made one 


192 


PANSY STORIES. 


question, “ Why not enter there ? ” The day 
was drawing to a close, and a night such as we 
have indicated was setting in, as a carriage, 
drawn by two spirited grays, paused before the 
Roman arched doorway of the Van Arsdale 
home, and a lady clad in velvet and fur ascended 
the steps that led to the mansion. Her step 
was proud and self-reliant, the poise of the head 
was good had it not been too haughty, the 
voice cold, and slightly broken, as she swept by 
the servant with the question “ Have the gentle- 
men returned ? ” 

“ And sure, I don’t see why the madam is so 
short to-night,” said Liza, as she returned to 
the dining hall where John, the waiter, was 
giving the final touch to a bit of silver before 
sounding the bell for dinner. “ Christmas 
times, too, and niver a bit of brightness in her 
face, or a good kind word from her heart.” 

“Mrs. Van Arsdale does not like noise and 
fuss over anything,” remarked John. 


ristitootion: 


193 


But Liza continued with her reproaches till 
the tinkle of a bell called her to her post of duty. 

“Sure and I hope ’tis a likelier face than I 
met before, that I hope to see, else I’ll be after 
wishing ye to fill your own place at the door. 
It’s only because I’m full of Christmas oblege 
that I’m after accoomodatin’ ye now, sir.” 

What was the trouble in the Van Arsdale 
home ? What high-toned evil hid behind the 
doors, reclined upon its Oriental rugs, glanced 
from its gold-set pictures, ambuscaded behind 
its statues, laughed from its mirrors, ruled in 
royal sway o’er this man and woman, who, with 
white jeweled hands laid upon these costly 
belongings, pronounced them “ ours.” 

Mrs. Van Arsdale had been out all day. 
Leaving her carriage, to enter a store, she was 
surprised by the approach of a young girl, 
who, undaunted by the reserve of the lady 
extended a circular, saying, “ I hope you’ll find 

time to come.” The paper was an invitation to 
13 


194 


PANSY STOBIES. 


a prayer service to be held that day at noon, in 
a hall not very remote. What had Mrs. Van 
Arsdale to do with a “prayer service?” Was 

she not a member of church, Fifth Avenue ! 

but the words of the young girl, how they lin- 
gered in her memory, calling up scene after 
scene of the buried long-ago ! What spirit 
sways the proud woman? She returns to her 

carriage. “ Drive to Square, number 

twenty-nine,” said she, as she sank in the soft 
cushions, and drew the warm furs about her. 

It was only a noon prayer-meeting ; but Mrs. 
Van Arsdale hesitated at the door when the same 
hand that had handed her the invitation a few 
moments since was extended to her in welcome. 
The same sweet voice with the Virginia accent 
fell upon her ear as the speaker pronounced the 
words, “ I’m so glad you’ve come ; let me show 
you to a seat by me.” 

Oh, what is it that we see in the proud 
woman’s eyes ? . It glistens. Tears ! Oh, no ; 


RISTITOOTION .” 


195 


there must be a mistake. The singing is low 
and sweet ; the leader of the meeting, a strong, 
magnetic man, reads for the lesson the words re- 
corded in the seventh chapter of Matthew, twen- 
ty-first verse — “ Not every one that saith unto 
me, Lord, Lord, shall enter into the kingdom of 
heaven ; but he that doeth the will of my Father 
whihh is in heaven.” After a few pointed re- 
marks, he called upon an old man to lead in 
prayer. Mrs. Van Arsdale bowed her proud 
head while the sentences, full of grammatical 
error, fell upon her cultured ear. No one smiled 
over the inelegant English, over the faltering, 
broken voice. “Father,” he prayed, “if any of 
us is livin’ to his or her self ; if any of us has 
done a great wrong ; if any of us has shut his 
heart against his brother or his sister and kept 
back the things as had ought to be theirs, help 
us to get away from the evil one ; help us by 
Thy sweet Spirit to make ristitootion before it be 
too late ; help us at this sweet Christmas time 


190 


PANSY STORIES. 


to make a clear ristitootion ! ” The prayer is 
ended, but the bowed head is not raised. 

There are many bowed heads at this noon 
prayer-meeting, for, in the midst of the old 
man’s prayer there had come an angel from the 
courts of heaven, who, stealing softly beside the 
heart-doors of the sleeping children of sin, had 
rolled the stone of blindness far, far away, and 
the gleams from his radiant countenance had 
lighted the deep, dark corners and melted the 
ice-bound fountain of tears. “ Ristitootion ! ” 
“ Ristitootion ! ” “ Ristitootion ! ” How the 

word echoed and re-echoed ! 

The service was ended. The young girl 
paused beside the haughty woman yet. There 
were tears in the elder woman’s eyes. “ I’m so 
sorry for you,” said the girl with the southern 
accent. “ Thank you,” came from between the 
proudly curved, firmly set lips, and they parted. 

Down into the heart of the great crowd rolled 
the grand carriage ; but above the noise of the 


“ ristitootion: 


197 


street, echoed the word “ Ristitootion ” ; out 
from the busy world of Broadway into the aris- 
tocratic quiet of Fifth Avenue, but the echo 
died not ; and now, in the stillness of her own 
room, in the palatial splendor of her own house, 
it sounds louder and louder, as the angel bends 
closer and closer over the sealed heart of the 
cold, sad woman. The luxurious elegance of 
the room is lost to her vision, as more and more 
distinct grows the picture of a long-lost past : 
she is back again in the old home ; down by the 
river the violets are blooming just as blue, just 
as fragrant, just as pure, as they were in that 
time long gone — the purest, the truest, the ten- 
derest time of her life. We feel a thrill of 
sympathy for this silent woman in her lonely 
misery. Not always has she lived in that 
brown stone palace, not always has she worn 
that glittering smile on her frozen lips, not 
always has she looked out upon the joyous 
Christmas cheer with unanswering heart. 


198 


PANSY STORIES. 


Alone with God’s angel we will leave her, as 
we take a glance at a picture long grown dim, a 
picture that finds no gilded support in all the 
vast collection found in the Van Arsdale house, 
a picture framed with moss-covered vines, where 
dainty blooms of wild-flowers star the deeps of 
green, a picture bright with the joy of childhood 
and of love. ’Tis the old home picture of the 
little house by the river, where the willows 
bend in graceful sweep and the nesting birds 
sing in their swaying homes, and the voice of 
the mother is sweet at morning, at noon and at 
night ; where care has not come upon the brow 
of childhood, nor sorrow upon the heart of ma- 
turer years. 

Ah! those were joyous years for Charles 
and Alice Gray, when, hand in hand, brother 
and sister climbed the low-browed hills for the 
wealth of wild bloom that crowned their sum- 
mits. But the years glide by. 

It was somewhat surprising to the quiet 


RISTITOOTION 


199 


people of L that the distinguished Jerome 

Van Arsdale should come from his city home, 
arid from his wanderings round the world, I 
might say, to find his wife at the humble cottage 
of the Grays ; but, surviving this nine days’ 
wonder, they enjoyed the flashings in and out 
of the happy pair, as from year to year they 
came and went, on visits to Alice’s mother and 
brother. For all the mystic grace of marriage, 
for all the high-sounding name, there was no 
change in “ Alice Gray,” as the friends still 
called Jerome Van Arsdale’s wife. 

But the years glided by. There came a time 
when the loved mother joined the fond father 
in the land where no separations come, and 
brother and sister stood beside a fresh grave in 
the churchyard. 

“What will you do?” asked Mrs. Van Ars- 
dale. “You cannot live here now. Come with 
us.” 

Could he tell her ? must he tell her ? could 


200 


PANSY STORIES. 


he, looking in her sweet eyes, say the words 
that cost him even in thought a great agony ? 
No ! He would keep it to himself. “ It mat- 
ters not for me,” he said. “ My country calls, 
and I must serve her. If mother had lived I 
should have been perplexed, but now my way is 
clear, my duty plain.” 

And still the years glide by ! 

Jerome Van Arsdale was growing richer every 
day. Millions of dollars were at liis command. 
Did he remember the crash ere the war broke 
out? When Charlie Gray came forward with 
his little all of personal effects in the form of 
four thousand dollars which he received from 
the sale of the farm where he and Alice were 
born ; and placing it in his hand had said : 
“ Will this be of any use ? ” Had he forgotten 
the man who from his mother’s grave went out 
into the smoke and din of battle ? Had he for- 
gotten the man who, maimed and broken-hearted, 
had found a rest in the “Soldiers’ Home,” which 


ristitootion; 


201 


stranger hands had provided him in a far-off 
Southern land ? Coming at a time when failure 
came so close, the paltry four thousand had oiled 
the clogs of the mercantile machine, and the 
wheels ran free in the firm of Van Arsdale & Co. 
Had Jerome Van Arsdale forgotten all these 
things ? 

Once or twice since the close of the war he 
had thought of looking up his brother-in-law ; 
“but were he living he would have come to us,” 
he reasoned. In the midst of that time, when 
sectional feeling waxed warm, and brother’s 
hand was raised ’gainst brother, he had told the 
story of Charley’s generous kindness to his 
wife ; but the years had brought forgetfulness, 
and the millions rolled in, and their hearts grew 
smaller every year. Had Charles Gray ever 
written ? Once only ; but, as no answer came, 
he concluded ’twas best to live his life out all alone 
in his far-off home. The letter had come to the 
Van Arsdales while they were at Rome ; in the 


202 


PANSY STORIES. 


confusion of travel they had lost it, and with it 
their only clew to Charley. A year or so after, 
Mr. Van Arsdale had mentioned advertising to 
find out his whereabouts ; but, the old affection 
had been covered up so long, they could get no 
flowers to bloom. Were the roots dead? 

So, the years glide by. 

It was late on this night during the week be- 
fore Christmas, and the lights burned low in the 
library, where Mr. Van Arsdale sat watching the 
smoke curl in blue wreaths from his cigar* 
The visitors were gone and soon he would join 
his queenly wife. What had so changed Mrs. 
Van Arsdale ? Almost he could fancy her the 
Alice Gray to whom he had lost his heart 
so many years ago. She had seemed so like her 
old self to-night. Why, once in the presence of 
their friends her hand had nestled in his, what 
did it mean ? 

They had lived a formal life for years. Lit- 
tle by little the change had come. ’Twas “ Mr. 


“ RISTITOOTION 


203 


and Mrs. Van Arsdale?” Did he hear aright? 
“ Jerome : ” surely a voice called, yes, with the 
olden sweetness came the call, “ Jerome.” No 
stately waiter bearing a silver tray, with the 
message “Mrs. Van Arsdale wishes to see you, 
sir,” but a voice full of sweetness, a low, tender, 
loving voice calling him from across the hall. 
Oh, these are old lovers, the frosts of many 
winters are on their heads. How the ice of 
conventionality melts under the rays of Christ- 
mas cheer ! “ What is it, dear heart ? ” he asks, 

as with both white hands in his, he looks in the 
eyes which are filled with tears. “ Ah, Jerome, 
take me to the old home, once more. We must 
find Charley /” 

“ My heart leaps back to mine own South 
To the old town — to the old town. 

I know there is never a town so sweet, 

Each windy street 
To the sea runs down. 

“ Oh, the house half way to the wharf ! 

I would give a hundred of these 


204 


PANSY STORIES. 


Long days, strange days, to stand on its stair, 

In the golden air, 

And hear the hum of its bees.” 

How closely the angel has held the proud 
woman in his embrace of love ! Like the break- 
ing up of the ice under the warm spring sunshine 
has been the effect of the old man’s prayer upon 
the heart of Mrs. Van Arsdale, and the ice-freed 
river of love flows on, and on, and on, washing 
down reserve, and prejudice, and pride. 

“ Glory to God in the highest; 

Peace, good-will among men!” 

’Tis Christmas morning, and the sun shines 

down on the town of L with the brightness 

of May ; and the grass in the graveyard is richly 
green, and the voices, happy voices of children, 
are breaking the holy stillness of the morning, 
with the words of heavenly rejoicing. Over 
beyond where the wild rose spreads her worn, 
faded dress, over the unkempt grass of two lone 


ristitootion: 


205 


graves, stand a man and woman whose hair 
is white, whose eyes are dim with tears. 

With silent eloquence the neglected graves 
rebuke this man and woman. Something soft 
and warm touches the lady’s hand. Looking 
down she sees the wondering eyes of a child 
raised in questioning glances, — deep, tender blue 
eyes. 44 Peoples nezza ky on Kissmas-day ! ” 
she said. And Mrs. Van Arsdale caught the 
little stranger in her arms and kissed and kissed 
the rosy lips, while Mr. Van Arsdale brushed 
something very much like tears from his face, 
and, led by the little girl, they entered the old 
stone church by the river. 

Yes; the minister could tell them some little 
of 44 Charley.” He was a great way off, but by 
traveling fast they could reach him by New- 
Year’s day. How far off Florida seemed ! How 
slowly they traveled ! Once in the land of 
flowers, a long stage-route, lay before them ere 
they could hope to see their lost one. On, on, 


206 


PANSY STORIES. 


and on they drove through the deepening gloom 
of the evening shadows, till the stars came out, 
and, smiling from their far-off homes, whispered 
of hope, of reunion, of happiness. 

“ And where was Charley?” 

On the porch of a vine-covered cottage, in an 
invalid’s chair, reclines a man whose eyes are 
fastened upon the rising moon, sailing, sailing, 
sailing, on her sea of deepest blue. An empty 
coat-sleeve falls by his side with pathetic em- 
phasis, a slumber-robe covers his limbs, hiding 
from view his helplessness. New-Year’s day 
can bring to him only more suffering, more 
heartache, deeper longing for the end to come 
that will bring him peace in the long, deep sleep 
of the grave. The night wears on ; the vines 
dance in merry shadows on the porch floor ; the 
moon grows brighter and brighter. 

“ Are you quite sure he is here ? ” asks a voice 
at the gate. 

The lame man listens. What means this 


“ RISTITOOTION .” 


207 


thrill? Whose hand is on his brow? Who 
calls him “Charley, Charley,” with the voice of 
his sister Alice ? * * * * * 

The angel has performed his mission. What 
need to tell of the joy of reunited hearts ? Ah, 
no one can tell of heart-joys that will not shape 
themselves in words, but must find an outlet in 
deeds. And may God help us all in the fresh- 
ness of the New Year to make a clear, a full, an 
entire restitution. 


THE END. 



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